


Umbras Animi

by Fianna_Ai



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (if you squint), Cole is a precious baby, Death, Fluff, Ghost Marriage, HEA, He Got Better, I'll vote you off the island, It's a bit corpsey in here, M/M, Necromancy, No Fereldans don't do that, No Frankenstein Jokes, No Sex, Soul Bond, The Fade, What is canon anyway, light details of physical death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28064316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fianna_Ai/pseuds/Fianna_Ai
Summary: Strange customs concerning the dead abounded in every corner of Thedas; that much was indisputable.Dorian Pavus had studied them all, and found something worth recognizing and respecting in each tradition.Of all the death traditions he had read about in Thedas, however, nothing truly baffled him like the customs of the Fereldans.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 40
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to the ever-effervescent [Calcitron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calcitron/pseuds/Calcitron), who beta'd/edited this and numerous other projects for me so far, despite the holiday hustle, and isn't afraid to talk linguistics, forensics, and epicureanism (though typically not together!)
> 
> This is a re-work of a bedtime story I told on the [Herald's Rest](https://discord.gg/Wesua75M7x), a Cullrian Discord with a lovely group of people. Still can't write a one-shot that's actually one chapter. #squadgoals2021
> 
> This is not intended to be an entirely accurate depiction of all Thedosian death rituals. In particular, Fereldans Don't Do That. But hopefully it will be a somewhat interesting exploration. I feel like I'm a bit late for Halloween though.....

Strange customs abounded in every corner of Thedas; that much was indisputable. For instance, some countries thought the Nevarran Necropoli to be the most bizarre and macabre of customs one might dream up concerning the dead. Others felt that the intense trancelike displays of the seers of Rivain were the most unsettling, with their tendency to produce true pearls of the lives and thoughts of the dearly departed. Andrastians in particular found the Sky Burials of the Avvar tribes to be particularly disrespectful to the departed.

Dorian Pavus had studied them all, and found something worth recognizing and respecting in each tradition. Nevarra’s _Mortalitasi_ created their immense Necropoli under the belief that the body was an integral part in the identity of the deceased, and keeping the flesh connected to the world retained some small part of the lost ones. Rivaini claimed that their method bypassed the foibles of flesh entirely, and communed with the soul of the departed across the Fade, comforting loved ones with a last impression of their nearness. As for Sky Burials - well, they were terribly practical, these Avvar. Burying a body in frozen solid ground? Certainly much more difficult than feeding the airborne predators and keeping the pests out of one’s hold.

Of all the death traditions he had read about in Thedas, however, nothing truly baffled him like the customs of the Fereldans. The treatment of the body was ordinary enough - once no longer needed for mourning purposes, the body was cremated on the pyre, as in most Andrastian lands. While these southerners officially followed the Andrastian Chantry as the Seers of Rivain did, they would not at all be swayed from their inborn belief that the deceased could not rest in peace if there were any things left undone within their lives.

This belief was so strong, in fact, that it manifested itself at the level of a superstition in their day-to-day lives. Unexplained phenomena were attributed to restless and dissatisfied spirits, and families in mourning would spend the entire wake puzzling over all the aspects of the deceased’s life - not just trading anecdotes of their existence _in memoriam_ , as the saying went, but also holding one another to account.

In the Chantry in Highever, Dorian heard an old woman questioning her daughter. “...And you’re very sure that you and your Pa made up about the harsh words you had when your husband proposed to you and he had no job and no home to keep you in? I won’t have your father sticking around upset because the two of you can’t come to terms!”

Or in Amaranthine, when he’d heard a tradesman sighing over his ale in the tavern to his companion. “Of course it’s terrible that Alvi passed on, but I’m trying not to be angry with him! He left me a deathwish to tell his wife about his mistress and their bastard child! How’m _I_ the one picked for that sort of request?” He’d swilled his ale darkly. “Ye can’t refuse such a thing, though; I’ll not have Alvi hanging around rattling me sweetheart’s pots and pans at night.”

Merely a quaint oddity, he thought, until his steps turned him toward a small hamlet a few days’ ride from Jader, on the Waking Sea. He’d crossed from Cumberland - his father had turned on him in anger years ago now, _You’re no son of mine_ , and Dorian wasn’t stupid enough to stay around - but every once in a while, the old man got it in his mind to regret it, or to try to bring him into line.

As a researcher-at-large for the Minrathous Circle of Magi’s Thedosian Cultural Studies division, he was given the opportunity to see the world, though it was on a shoestring budget, and he must typically fend for himself. Still, he didn’t regret it, and easily gave his father’s hired hands the slip when they came calling.

This time, escape took him to Jader, which worked out fine, because while death customs were always a gruesome family favorite back home, he’d truthfully he’d been dreading heading into chilly Ferelden to complete the study. This was the excuse he needed to force himself to complete his compendium and get paid a final settlement. This, somehow, was how he found himself in a one-horse town so tiny the one horse had clearly already run away, taking the little hamlet’s name with it.

Barely big enough for an inn, but it boasted one nevertheless; he settled down in the taproom with pleasant surprise, and found himself facing a family of three Fereldans in all black - Fereldans mourned in all black, he remembered, when they had cause for ceremony. Whatever was going on with them, it was more than just a quick formal pyre. Fereldans wore black for other reasons too, he recalled, so he should not pry.

It seemed his polite reticence was not required in this instance, however. “Pardon me,” the oldest of the three, a woman with blonde curls, rose and crossed to seat herself near him at the bar. “You cannot happen to be the person who was supposed to meet us here, regarding the Marriage, can you?”

“Marriage?” he replied, surprised. “I’m afraid not, Mistress. I’m merely a travelling scholar,” he explained apologetically. Glancing at her, and then her siblings, he frowned. “I do hope someone hasn’t got stood up at the altar,” he offered warmly.

“I would hate to think it myself,” she agreed dryly, “...but it seems that there are those out there with no compunction against disgracing themselves so.” She looked so discouraged that Dorian could not help but gesture to the bartender to bring the woman a drink. “Poor Cullen; he deserved so much better than to be treated like this,” she murmured sadly.

There was a man and a woman with her, at the seat she had left across the taproom. Dorian waited until she had her drink in hand. “Dorian Pavus,” he said, “Researcher and scholar of the Minrathous Circle of Magi,” and he offered a hand to her for a warm shake as the southerners seemed to favor. “Currently on my way from Jader to Denerim.”

“Mia,” she replied. “We are the Rutherfords, though I’ve married now myself,” she explained, taking his hand in her own, a black silk glove curling around his fingers. “You are a scholar?” she asked, sipping at her drink. “What are you studying?”

“You’ll think it’s terribly strange, Miss Mia,” he warned with a charming smile, “...but I’m studying death customs throughout Thedas.” She was clearly surprised, her eyes and mouth all opening wide, her drink hovering midair. “I know; that’s how most people react. I’ve studied the _Mortalitasi_ school of magic, and the Rivaini Seers…”

“Serrah,” she began, setting her drink down. “Do _you_ happen to be married?”

For once, he was given pause in his favorite subject of talking about himself. “Oh, goodness no,” he responded with an uncertain chuckle. “My lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to such,” he grimaced, though it was supposed to be a smile. He knew well enough what _his kind_ could reasonably expect from life. His father and his so-called closest acquaintances had made that abundantly clear. “In Minrathous, men like myself are perpetual bachelors, I am afraid,” he explained gently, to smooth over his strange expression.

All at once, Mia’s blue-eyed gaze became calculating. She took him in with one sweep from head to toe, and he quickly recognized the look of someone who wanted something. “You are a mage, Serrah Pavus?” she asked, smiling gently to take any sting of potential apprehension from her words. He nodded reluctantly, not trusting the southern propensity toward magic. “No matter,” she replied diplomatically. “You’re a scholar, so you do seem a well-read sort, and in your position, you certainly must be somewhat self-sufficient… do you care for chess?” she asked diplomatically.

He did not know how to react to the sudden onslaught of inquiries. “Ah, yes?”

“And dogs?” she prompted him. “Do you like them?”

“I… have never had one,” he said, and it was his turn to be diplomatic, knowing already how the Fereldans felt about their canines. “I never thought to enjoy them, but perhaps…”

She stood abruptly, shoving her stool backward. “Perfect.” She reached for his hand, taking it with slow courtesy, which he allowed, completely baffled. He did not quite expect to be yanked completely from his stool and ushered across the room.

“This is him?” the blue-eyed young man looked Dorian over as Mia had done. “You’re late,” he snapped.

“No, he’s not the one who agreed to meet us,” Mia cut eyes at him quellingly. The other young woman had gold-hazel eyes, and she exchanged a glance with the eldest before looking him over carefully. “Dorian Pavus, travelling scholar of Minrathous, this is my younger brother Branson Rutherford, and my sister Rosalie Rutherford,” she gestured at them with her free hand.

Seeing as how she had his in her grasp, he half-bowed from the waist. “Charmed.”

Rosalie’s face lit up hopefully.

“He’s a mage, but well-studied, and he’s single. He likes chess and is open to dogs,” she said to them both, as though this were all somehow quite illuminating of his character.

“Oh, so that’s how it is, then?” Branson’s surly disposition eased somewhat as he glanced at his sister. “Cullen does like them _exotic_.” Before Dorian could start to act on the inkling of understanding that that brought to light, the Fereldan man examined his face closely. “Are you a good man, Dorian of Minrathous?”

What a question. It put him to a stop, simply because he’d had the misfortune to have to ask himself that very same thing too many times in his life. Pausing, he reclaimed his hand from the eldest Rutherford sibling, lacing them with his free digits to cover his anxiety.

“I don’t think you can trust anyone who is able to give you an easy answer to such an ambiguous question,” he admitted, hearing his own tone soften. “What is _a good man_?” he asked, “...and who decides? The Maker? If so, how do we know?” he wondered. “Is good a matter of context? Could a slave owner, or a murderer, be _good_ , if his actions relieve suffering, and help others? I don’t have the answer to your question, Branson Rutherford. I’m sorry.”

A thoughtfully surprised grunt emerged, and he lifted the pint he’d been nursing. “Yeah, alright,” he replied casually. “He’ll do.”

“Don’t be so crass, Bran,” Rosalie interjected archly, and stood to take his arm in hers. Mia took the other one, and he looked back and forth between them, baffled. “Please, Serrah Dorian, won’t you come meet our brother, Cullen?”

“Is he not the one who was just stood up?” he replied nervously.

“It’s okay,” Mia patted his elbow gently. “Cullen comes across stern, but he’s always had a forgiving heart,” she observed, and there was a deep sadness in her tone, a sound like a choking that she swallowed down.

“I do hope you don’t mind that type,” Rosalie was saying with a sly tease to her grin.

“Bran, get our friend’s bag,” Mia called. “Get him a room for his things, dear.”

A back room attached to the inn was their destination. The inside of the room was mostly dark, and Mia paused to grab a lit taper, her sister pushing the door open with her free hand. From inside, quiet and the scent of incense poured forth. “Cullen,” she called ahead. “I’m sorry to disturb you, big brother, but we’ve brought someone for you to meet.

Before he knew it, the four of them were seated on a small wooden platform which took up half the room, and Mia whipped back a perfectly clean white sheet, as vigorously as though she were urging the occupant out of bed to face the day. However, the moment the sheet was removed, Dorian instantly became very aware that their brother, Cullen, was very, very dead.

He was a handsome man - when he was alive, of course. Pale-complected in the Fereldan archetype, and well-coiffed by his siblings so that the Rutherford curls were smoothed and pulled severely back from his face, he bore the hallmark delicacy of the bloodless dead in the stark whiteness of his expression. The body was well cared-for, and he lay on what appeared to be a richly-embroidered cushion, strapped into fine, gleaming silver Inquisition armor. Wrapped around the thick hilt of his equally-polished sword, his fingers appeared strong and blunt in his leather gloves - the sort of hand that might conquer the hand it shook.

“He died in Orlais,” Branson broke the silence delicately. “In battle, helping to save Thedas from… some darkspawn abomination the likes of which even the Gray Wardens could not take down alone,” he explained. “We’re told he saved the Lord Inquisitor and several other important people, and they took good care of him til we could meet him here in Jader.”

“We’re grateful they returned him,” Mia took up the tale, “...but it’s nearly too late now. We are almost out of time, you see.”

“I… I am afraid I do not understand,” Dorian admitted, looking the man over with care and confusion, and a touch of excitement. He was clearly, irrevocably deceased, which put him firmly into Dorian’s wheelhouse of study. Carefully looking over the body of their brother, he noted that there seemed to be little to no post-mortem cosmetic alteration of the departed; he had been left with a day’s growth of stubble, and his lids had been carefully closed with golden lashes, dark at the roots, touching his cheeks. On his lip, on what would have been the man’s right side, an old scar marked his upper lip, tapering up to just under the cheekbone. Rather than spoiling his looks, however, it made him appear all the more charming, somehow - the mar that enhanced the perfection of the total package, perhaps.

“Are you making eyes at my brother, Serrah?” Rosalie teased him gently, settling a wayward curl back from the corpse’s brow fondly, and then brushing some dust away from the fur-trimmed mantle which would have lain upon his shoulders, now framing his face. “Oh! Introductions. Dorian Pavus of Minrathous, this is Commander Cullen Rutherford. He used to be the Inquisition’s Commander. Now, of course, he must retire,” she whispered diplomatically.

“Quite an honor,” he spoke more to the girl, but his eyes lingered across the man’s features. He seemed to be the type who had been tired, in life. Like there had been more struggles before him than his final rest could adequately disclose; as though his eyes would open shortly to have him frowning in concentration at some puzzle which had eluded him. “One seldom has the privilege of being introduced to such a hero, and such a strapping sort at that... I’m certain we’d have gotten on famously, had we been introduced just a bit sooner,” he offered.

“We’re a practical sort,” Mia began, after the siblings exchanged a look. “We wanted the world for our brother, but he’s always been a fighting man - putting himself on the front lines where he was needed the most. Obviously we don’t expect much now - no garden and picket fence, what have you - and Cullen wouldn’t have wanted a family he couldn’t be there to support, so it’s okay if his spouse can’t give birth to his child, but… Dorian, we don’t have even a day left, and we want very much for him to be married as his last act in this life,” she explained gently, hope welling up in her eyes along with tears. “I know he’d have been delighted to meet you, in his awkward little way…”

“She means, would you do us the honor of marrying our brother?” Rosalie asked, the very soul of conversational pleasantry.

It turns out that in Ferelden, being asked to wed a corpse was _not_ , in fact, a euphemism.

.....

“...I mean, you seem like a _perfectly_ lovely gentleman,” Dorian advised his new spouse, in all seriousness. “Why would such a gorgeous specimen as yourself have had to thrust the burden of post-mortem matchmaking upon your siblings? Quite rude, really,” he mused aloud. “ _Aha_ , I bet I can guess,” he snapped the fingers of one hand. “You are the sort who never had _time_ for such _self-indulgence_ as ensuring his own personal satisfaction and well-being - too bloody noble. That lines up with what Mia has described of you,” he concluded. “Well? I am right, aren’t I.”

Cullen, wisely, did not contradict him.

“Are you always so bashful?” he wondered, and since he was long past the point of self-consciousness or the mundanity of the expected at this point, the words were laced mainly with irony. He looked around the small private room the Rutherfords had rented for the wedding, and looked back to the unmoving form of his intended. “A shame; I do enjoy a good argument, and it is intended to be our wedding night.”

The ceremony had been a perfunctory one. A local lay sister had been given permission to say the nuptial mass, though in order to do so, she advised Dorian and Mia that she must backdate the paperwork to the date of her brother’s legal death. Officially, the Andrastian Chantry no more endorsed the marriage of the dead than they did the visions of the Rivaini Seers. To proceed, Mia as witness, and Dorian as groom, had been required to perjure themselves on paper attesting to the altered timeline of events.

Kindly, the family had asked after Dorian’s wedding customs, but it wasn’t terribly practical for them to ask his parents for permission, sign a prenuptial agreement, provide a dowry, or display their marriage candidate’s thaumaturgical prowess, so he simply shook his head and offered a tentative smile. They’d made a traditional symbolic offering to the Maker and provided Dorian with a plain but lovely silver ring, a pretty woven vine pattern etched into it.

He had made notes as Mia spoke to him; an eccentricity that she had permitted, given that she knew of his field of study, his status as a foreign national, and that the Rutherfords were, in point of fact, breaching the boundaries of propriety by asking a near perfect stranger for such a favor. Apparently, by local custom, Cullen Rutherford would be considered his true and first spouse, and in conversation and convention, would be honored as such. Dorian would be considered a widower in Fereldan culture, and the Rutherford family would continue to regard him as an in-law - a tie that would have signified rather more in Tevinter than it ever could in South Reach arling, Ferelden.

On paper, a marriage lasting less than twenty-four hours and dissolved in death would be of official record, recognized in all lands under the Andrastian Chantry. That Tevinter’s Imperial Chantry made it a common habit to recognize marriages of the southern Chantry unless opposed under Imperium law was a byproduct of no consequence. Dorian wondered idly - half sour and half gleeful - whether his father might catch wind of the documentation. Perhaps he should thank his surprise spouse for making him at least a smidgen less marriageable, at that, he smirked.

Earlier, Mia brought in a tray with a small carafe of alcohol and a cup of water, a tiny pot of honey besides, and some fruit for Dorian. It turned out that the marriage of the living and living-challenged was still expected to be sealed with a chaste kiss at the end of the ceremony; the honey painted both of their lips to make the practice as palatable for all involved as possible. The alcohol filled a small cup, sipped by Dorian, and then used to wet Cullen’s lips during the ceremony itself.

The kiss was not warm, of course. He wasn’t sure why a trickling pang of disappointment settled in his chest; only, if he ever wed a man, he might have hoped for a more responsive wedding kiss. “He always was shy,” Mia whispered to him behind her hand. “Not a big change, perhaps.” Despite the situation, however, his mouth was soft, the scar a texture of interest against his own lips, and the feel of golden stubble beneath his fingertips when he cupped the warrior’s face was alluring enough to draw a thumb to stroke across his cheek. What would it feel like, had he been able to smile, the mage wondered.

The lay sister blessed the union and anointed them both, declared Cullen’s death, and spoke his last rites, his three siblings and newly-widowed spouse in somber attendance. She provided the forms which they signed, and the sister directed them to submit them separately, at different Chantries, to allay suspicion from her. At the end, she rose and accepted Rosalie’s thanks, and Branson’s small pouch of sovereigns, and Mia took Dorian’s hand.

“Well, brother-in-law,” she said. “On the wedding night, it is not conventional for the couple to get much in the way of sleep,” she pointed out.

Blankly, Dorian stared at the woman, then freed his hand, both of his own palms drifting over to cover Cullen’s ears, smoothing the golden locks back thoughtlessly as he did. “My dear,” he gave an exaggerated whisper as he held his palms over the man’s ears, “I’ve studied the arts of the _Mortalitasi_ , but I assure you, _certain_ acts of consummation are far less accepted in Tevinter social circles than in Nevarran,” he kept his scathing tone light. “Besides, I’m sure your brother wouldn’t want to hear you speak of his, eh… conjugal rites so blithely.”

“ _Maker_ , he’d’ve had his hands full with _you_ ,” she laughed despite herself. “The wedding kiss is more than enough _consummation_ for our taste, thank you greatly,” she arched an eyebrow. “However, as the spouse, you would be expected to be in attendance of his wake throughout the night,” she pointed out, “...particularly as it is also your wedding night.”

Thus he was left alone in the room, while the rest of his new in-laws settled Cullen’s remaining business and worldly concerns between them in the taproom. He was expected to keep vigil, symbolically, over his husband’s body, and not sleep. Tomorrow they would have the pyre, and then… well, he didn’t know what else. Maybe then he could sleep and compile his notes from the experience. His colleagues in Minrathous would certainly accuse him of losing objectivity, or just blatantly manufacturing tales of the south, he suspected, once these notes were published. Momentarily, he wondered if he dared to try his mediocre hand at drawing the face of his husband.

“You know,” he was saying, “Cullen… it is Cullen, right? Maker, our introductions could not have been any more perfunctory. I wonder if a rugged fellow such as yourself had any notions about magic? Did we have anything in common, do you think? Had I to guess, I’m not certain you seem the type to appreciate a good Agregio Pavali - do forgive me,” he apologized.

His husband appeared perfectly content to allow him the deciding vote.

“As I was saying,” he went on, “in the many, _many_ arguments I suffered with my father - your father-in-law, gracious; you lucked out, already being deceased, and all - we exchanged many a shout about the impossibility of my being able to one day settle down with a handsome man such as yourself. As much as I enjoy being proven right, however, I do rather believe this is _not_ the alternative I had in mind.”

With the lack of opposing viewpoint from his newly-acquainted significant other, Dorian took the opportunity to study him in the warm, flickering glow of several dozen candles. A strong jaw he had, with a sharpness to his occipital ridge which was rather lovely, but he looked hungry, somehow. Ill-cared-for, as though this Inquisition did not know how to feed its people properly. Death granted him some serenity, but his face was marked permanently about the eyes and the mouth, with the faint lines of many frowns left visible in his face.

Touching the skin of the several-days-dead never felt quite right, but Dorian found the back of one finger lingering against the corner of his mouth - the scarred one. That touch gave a most fleeting impression of a hidden smirk, and in his mind, he painted the picture of a man whose sense of humor ran more toward the wicked and obscene than he could rightly admit, and rarely could express, though his face indicated a life of stoicism.

“Would we have gotten along at all?” he wondered. Withdrawing his hand from the man’s face, he ran one fingertip over the backs of his leather-gloved knuckles, all clutched and knotted around the hilt of the sword lying unsheathed along the center of his chest. “With _my_ luck, this’ll be the only hilt you’ve grasped in your life, other than your own,” he muttered, and laughed at himself. “Still… for all that this isn’t the alternative I imagined, I do figure this is not the end you’d have had in mind either. How tragic; a man felled in his prime, with so many years of unhappiness left upon his face. And that scar - rakish when you smiled, I'm certain. Beating the boys and girls off with a stick, were you?”

Cullen had little to contribute, so Dorian was forced to bear the burden of conversation, as he inevitably ever did. For a time, he spoke about nothing in particular, or whatever crossed his mind in the moment - Ferelden and its dogs, his impressions of the Rutherfords, and of course about Tevinter, about his friends left behind, and a few fleeting impressions of his childhood. Periodically, he re-lit a guttering candle or reignited an expended cone of incense, sipped at his water, and gingerly let his hand stroke the dark red-black fur around his married acquaintance’s neck. At some point, he discovered a glint of silver; a single well-worn Fereldan coin slipped into the palm of his spouse’s hand.

Many hours had passed, and he realized he was re-telling a story about Felix that he had already told, head drooping toward his chest, and it had been several hours since any Rutherford had checked in on them. Shaking himself, he was chagrined to realize he had started to doze off, just a little, sitting by his beau’s side. As he slipped lightly into the Fade, he fought against that urge to sleep - terribly rude, unforgivable really. This husband of his deserves at least a reliable spouse for his wedding night wake, he scolded himself. Falling asleep on him in his final night was hardly the last impression he wanted to leave on a man leaving this world. After all, if there was one thread linking the customs of grief throughout Thedas, it was a commonality of consideration and care for both the deceased and bereaved.

The small private room had no windows, but his senses intuited that the first moon had likely set by now, and demure Satina rode the sky alone. At this rate, he would not make it through the night, exhausted from the nausea of recent ship travel as he was, and so he resolved that he would stay at least somewhat wakeful through meditation. Dorian rose and stretched the aches of his body by standing and cracking his spine, flexing his joints, yawning pointedly and taking great gulps of air, and then water, and a few bites of the apples and pears left behind for him. They were drenched in the same honey he had tasted in his wedding kiss.

“Well, _coniunx spiritus_ ,” he addressed the fallen warrior, his _spirit spouse_. “The annals of the _Mortalitasi_ would have it that you linger nearby your body still. If so, perhaps you might keep me company in these last, small hours before dawn? Unless the Maker calls you early,” he murmured, smoothing the fur down his shoulder and chest with something like a touch of fondness for a man he never knew in life.

Having said this, he straightened his back, staff next to his knee on the edge of the wooden platform, and crossed his legs. Closing his eyes to the dim room and the flickering warmth touching his eyelids, he let himself fall into the darkness behind his eyes, retreating even from the shadows of candlelight into the black void inside his mind. As he denied each sense, he slipped closer and closer to the Veil, groping along the cord which always tied him to the other side until he felt his spirit lift. The sensation of flying while falling was what he remembered best about the blissful space that fell between meditation and lucid dreaming.

Without conscious effort, sight began to return to him, though it was not like the vision he was accustomed to. A far cry from the rude, dim little back room of the smallest inn Ferelden had to offer, this was instead a half-formed, incandescent clearing lit by the Fade’s own light, a hue between greenish and blue. Wreathed by the stark, streaking fingers of bare, winter-black branches, a small safe space had cleared around him in the Fade, lit by an illusory green sun above, and the white and indigo lights of playful-looking wisps.

Sighing, relaxing his shape in a way only the formlessness of the Fade allowed, Dorian felt himself spin in place, taking in all of the clearing around him with senses extraordinary. As he paced the clearing, he tried to maintain a connection to his physical form; a colorless sort of presence he would not ordinarily be attuned to when fully asleep, wreathed in the light of joyful flames which sprang to life in his footprints. Quelling the flames with the soothing pass of a hand, he demonstrated his control over his own, tiny little corner of the Fade, turning again.

This is when he became aware that he was not truly alone in the space. Winking faintly into existence, then flickering away as though hiding, a small wisp crouched - if such a term could be used for a presence without physical form - in the vicinity of his body. His own physical form was fairly well-realized to himself, given that he was so familiar with his appearance on a day-to-day basis; it merely seemed illusory and unimportant, paling in comparison to the colorful vivacity of his Fade-self.

The little wisp, however, drifted in a seemingly restless pattern in the air, passing close to his face, and then ducking near his knee, at times dimming out completely. Just when he thought it had been frightened away, however, it would rally, showing itself again. There was something holding it to this clearing, he realized, taking a weightless breath of something other than air. It hovered not far away from Dorian’s physical body’s left hand - the hand which left pressed to his late husband’s shoulder as he’d drifted to the Fade, he realized - though he had to come closer to his body, come closer to waking up in order to feel the sensation of fur and hard pauldron beneath his fingertips.

“Oh!” he realized, his soft exhale sounding only dimly like his regular voice. “Gracious Maker,” he crooned softly, his fingertips lilting up into the air to chase after the wisp. It fled his touch at first, flickering in and out, and what he perceived to be his fingertips wavered through the air in its wake. "Maybe the _Mortalitasi_ are onto something, at that,” he mumbled curiously. Aloud, however, he spoke coaxingly to the wisp which was not truly a wisp. “Are you still here, then? My, but you are a _stubborn_ thing, to cling to your body this long! Must run in the family,” he snorted inelegantly, thinking of the intensity of the three blonde-haired Rutherford siblings still living. “If you had such tenacity in life, we'd have gotten along like a Circle on fire," the mage laughed.

The wisp, of course, had no mouth with which to converse, and little enough to offer in response. But at the sound of his laughter, it stopped trying to evade him and disappeared entirely in the air. Fighting off a stab of disappointment, Dorian wiggled the fingers of his ‘hand’ enticingly, and when the wisp reappeared, it wove between his fingertips like a hesitant feline. Utterly charmed, he found himself lighting up more than figuratively, brightening the clearing, and cupped the wisp - not properly a wisp, but in fact a Soul - gently in both hands like scooping water from a pond.

Seeming rather strong, given that its time next to its corporeal form was almost at its natural extension, the Soul nevertheless brightened further when he pulled it close. Though it was pure symbolism - the left hand on his husband’s chest, bearing his family’s ring - he thought he felt the gentle constraints of that metal band when he pulled the Soul in close to his mouth. “Cullen Rutherford,” he whispered gently, feeling the Soul in his fingers shiver like branches in a blizzard, “I’m ever so pleased to make your acquaintance, _mea coniunx_.”

When he held it close to his chest, he got a vague sense of the Soul, feeling the shift of emotions when he spoke to it. Awe and fear, yes, and a sensation of warmth and wonder - all far more complex than he might have experienced from a three-day unbound Soul, though it was not unheard of. Some spirits had been preserved with equally complex emotions, even memories, for decades or more, his studies told him. It was so rare, of course, that he himself had never encountered it.

"If you are not careful, you may be left behind in this place. You should hardly like to become one of the restless dead, o consort of mine,” he chided gently. How sad was it to actually _meet_ the man whose body he had wed? To have to be the one to tell him that his time here was at an end? It seemed far too woeful a tragedy to contemplate, and his light within the clearing dimmed. “Is it not time for you to let go? I understand that you were mortally injured in battle. Your friends and loved ones have lamented your loss greatly, but they too have come to terms with your farewell.”

Sad and regretful, a touch bitter, and a healthy dose of longing - these all suffused the Soul, along with the feelings of shock over an incomplete journey interrupted. Where Dorian’s own incorporeal fingers touched the homeless spirit, grazed its aura, the shock of its vivid emotions sank deeply into him. He wished there were a way to take this spirit with him; a way in which he could preserve such a gentle heart without perverting it into a corrupt and resentful spirit. Sighing softly, he hummed a few bars of an old Tevene lullaby, pulling the Soul of his _coniunx_ to his chest as he spun in place.

It was then that he realized they were not in fact alone in his tiny little clearing. At the roots of the trees the shadows bloomed; dark things lingered in the empty spaces of the Fade, and they hungered for vibrant, defenseless life - from smaller creatures, lesser demons and spirits without adequate evasion. A delicious, resilient mortal Soul would naturally be one of the ripest fruits to pluck, he wagered.

As he watched, the first few of the shadow blinked open unnatural yellow and red eyes, in pairs, in sextets, and some of the bare branches of the wintery trees were no longer just that. Twisting and taking on agency, the sharp shadows formed claws and sinews and spines, as of Terror, or Sloth; a cold mist settled along the floor of the clearing like the misty breath of Despair, all of them attracted to the presence of the unusually bright Soul. His body, and the faint outline of the empty vessel it guarded, were slowly obscured in the mist.

"Well, that just won't do." Gritting his teeth, Dorian drew himself to his full height, and swung the staff now in his hand, casting a protective barrier around them. In the physical realm, he could feel his right hand drop to the staff next to his knee as well. At the appearance of the predators, and the sudden sharpness of his casting, he sensed the Soul's unease, but it nestled closely against him as he drove the demons away. "Never fear, Cullen. A handsome, reputedly noble Soul like yourself deserves to go straight to the good old Maker's Bosom, or wherever you are destined to next. I regret that I cannot guide you myself, but, do you perhaps feel any pull or drive of your own?"

After some hesitation, the image of the clearing’s overlap with the Fade shifted slightly, and he caught a glimmer of the image of the two of them in the waking world; this physical senses jumped more sharply into relief in his mind’s eye. The Soul hovered anxiously near the body, and Dorian sighed with deep unhappiness. "You cannot go back, _mea coniunx_ ,” he apologized, reaching out his hand to the Soul even as he cast a wary eye around them. “I am so sorry,” he went on.

Still, he thought, brandishing his staff at the closest creeping spirits who tested his perimeter. Cullen’s Soul showed the strongest attachment to his own body of any newly-deceased he had ever encountered - even of those who were still within the three-day window which common lore designated as the critical gateway of time. That mythical three day period dictated an innumerable variety of the common practices of magic using the _Mortalitasi_ school, and greatly affected the success of Rivaini’s Seers as well. Even the Dalish had legends stating that the god Falon’Din, took the same alleged three days to guide spirits across the Veil.

Most spirits were generally greatly confused by their new status, their lack of input from their familiar senses, and particularly the _soporati_ were overwhelmed by the reality of the Fade as well. But not Cullen Rutherford - he seemed to possess an awareness, if not an acceptance, of who and where he was, and a drive to return. Was there truly no way to return him?

 _It is a challenge_ , he realized. Dorian Pavus had rarely in his life respected any established rule or ultimatum without at least some, superficial challenge to all precedented norms. It was the very reason he had spurned marriage, promotion, and convention; it had driven him to cross the Waking Sea, visit all the major city-states of the Free Marches, and risk frostbite in the mud-covered land of the so-called Dog Lords. In fact, it was perhaps the _only_ thing that could inspire him to talk to Orlesians whatsoever.

All at once, he found himself momentarily afire with the intellectual curiosity of the situation. "If I can force an unknown, unwilling spirit into any old body, can I not force a willing, eager Soul into the form to which it is already linked?" he asked; mostly he was sounding out the problem to himself, but the Soul fluttered, flickering with cautious hope. The _altus_ laid a series of fire mines around the perimeter of the clearing, and heard the first few runes burst as dark spirits attempted to challenge him. Dorian retaliated against them by forming a magical barrier around the core of the clearing, encircling himself, the Soul of his husband, and the spot where their bodies linked through the Fade.

The sensation of forlorn longing flooded him through the fingertips of his left hand, where it cradled Cullen’s soul. In the back of his throat, he could taste the salty-sweet flavor of tears uncried, pain unvoiced over many a night. If he had still dithered at all, the crushing _unfairness_ of it pushed him to want to help, though the problem still seemed so large to conquer that he knew not quite how.

"I can guarantee you nothing,” he whispered urgently, “and our time is exceedingly short. Only promise me that, should we succeed, you will spend some time working to put some laughter lines alongside those solemn worry wrinkles, hmm? Handsome men are more attractive with rakishly-scarred smiles." He can't be entirely sure of the Soul's acquiescence to the condition, but suddenly this area of the Fade feels surprisingly balmy.

Having bought himself a limited time to think, so long as his mana did not run dry, Dorian crouched near his body and considered the problem. Of course, watching the tableau of his meditating self and his spouse’s body, the mage realized the flaw inherent in his plan - obviously he must have an exceptionally functional body for his new husband to return to, if there is any chance of success. There was hardly any recourse; one could not pour fresh water into a cracked and shattered vessel.

He gazed at the semi-formless wisp of Soul, of _Cullen Rutherford_ , that danced trustingly between his fingers. _I have committed myself to a promise I may not be able to keep,_ he realized, and felt a sudden crush of distress in his throat as he did. The pang of desperation made the Despair and Terror demons outside howl; Sloth was content to wait for the barrier to be breached by others, as usual. _I have no way to make his body viable, and less than twelve hours in which to accomplish this goal._ Even back home in the Imperium, a land many miles and much bitterness behind him, he doubted he could have met such a demand.

A flash of blue-white light appeared in the corner of his vision, and Dorian sucked in a startled breath which he saw his physical body echo. _That light_ … His days and nights had been dark, at first, when he left Tevinter. He had known, _still_ believed, that leaving was the right thing to do - the only thing to do, really - but it didn’t make things any easier, leaving behind an ailing Felix, a worried Maevaris, and a grieving Gereon, on top of his own complicated feelings about his Father and Mother’s rejection of him. After he crossed the border out of Tevinter, he’d been in new dangers he had never anticipated before, not the least of which was loneliness and isolation, as the southerners avoided him whenever possible.

Some days, the only companion he could count upon to relieve his misery, as he slept beneath a tree like the homeless waif he suddenly had become, or when he was kicked abruptly from his accommodations without notice, was a boyish spirit who visited him from the Fade. Saying little aside from what seemed to be a series of whimsical nursery rhymes, the boy had at least reacted to him with kindness, and after much probing, he had put together the parts of the boy’s words and behaviors, and determined that he must be a Spirit of Compassion. Rising to his feet, he peered out into the darkness outside of his barrier. “Compassion?”

The pale, wispy-haired boy pressed his hands to the barrier. "I can't come in unless you open!" Relieved by the recognition of his friend, Dorian made the quick executive decision to take the risk. He lowered the barrier just long enough to allow Compassion to enter, reaching out to scoop the Soul up against his chest again protectively as he did.

Compassion eased his way into the space, feet alighting soundlessly on the ground, and took in the tableau they had recreated in the Fade. After a patient moment, he reached out toward the Soul. Cullen did not exactly go to him, but he did not shy or hide away either. "Wandering, Wanting, Wishing..." he whispered musically. "Dorian, he likes you," the spirit revealed, in simple wonder. "But... you've never even met?"

"Of course he likes me," Dorian assured the spirit, blushing slightly and blustering rather more boldly than he felt. "What's not to like? I am classically handsome, and I _will not_ have it put about that my own husband dislikes me." At any rate, it's good enough, for now, that the Soul did not seem frightened of him or his magic, nor of the Compassion Spirit. "Compassion - such an unwieldy name. Have you nothing shorter I can call you?" He teased, offering the spirit in the shape of a boy a small smile.

It is perpetually challenging to discern the facial expressions of any denizen of the Fade, unaccustomed as they are to mimicking human facial movement. Compassion, however, seemed rather life-like, despite his stiffness. "I have been called Cole," he offers tentatively.

"Cole it is, then," he declared with a breath, relaxing just a little more. "Cole,” he went on, “I have come across this fellow through a rather, ah… unusual chain of events,” he began circumspectly. “I do believe that this Soul is not ready to move on."

Cole's gaze dropped to the Soul again. "No," he agreed. "Souls weaken, waver, become a wisp. He was full of regrets," he held out his hand again, and this time the Soul allowed the Compassion spirit to pick him up. "He tested the chains, but struggled against them each day. He cannot move on until he believes there is something he can move on to," Cole murmured in his strange little sing-song voice.

“Is that the answer, then?” Dorian wondered aloud. He knew better than to expect a straight response from a Compassion spirit. “Should I be encouraging him to move on? Am I being selfish to want to save you?” The mage reached out and passed one fingertip through the incorporeal flesh of Cullen’s Soul, as one would stroke a pet cat.

"He never truly learned if he was a good man, or a monster,” Cole supplied faintly, and the Soul danced around his fingers, illuminating the threadbare patching that passed for his idea of clothing. “He doesn't want to be a monster." He smiled - an eerie approximation of a smile, perhaps, but the gesture is clear - and extended his hands back to the mage. "He is stronger when you hold him."

Dorian took the offering of pure unadulterated Soul back, and instantly felt warmer - he hadn’t been aware that the Fade could feel so cold. "Cole, I promised I would try to get him back to his body," he revealed. "I do not know that I can do it," he confessed, chagrined, "...but I must put forth the effort. My fear is that his body is too long... still," he decides, diplomatically, because it certainly sounds more reassuring than _stiff_.

Tilting his head under the curiously large hat which always appeared with the boy, blue eyes reflected the light of Cullen’s Soul. Outside the barrier, something shrieked, and he flinched when a hit to its surface sucked a little sip of his mana away.

"Also,” he went on, squeezing his palms snugly around the Soul, which only seemed to to respond by changing the rules of its shape, delighting them both with their odd little game, “...the Andrastian Chantry may be rather incensed with me, but I can't be bothered about that, of course." He looked to the spirit consideringly. "Isn't it such a shame that he didn't get to - to..." he shrugged awkwardly, "...settle down and raise a herd of children and a passel of dogs, or whatever it is these Fereldans do for enjoyment?"

"Dorian," Cole reminded gently, "You don't have to manipulate me to feel Compassion."

"...Oh. Right. Of course." He cleared his throat to hold onto a shard of dignity.

Cole watched him ever so patiently, and the _altus_ quickly got the impression that there was very little that he could say which would surprise the boy. At last, the Tevinter man plucked up the temerity to ask, "Well then... if you pity his lot, would you not be willing to help him?"

Unmoved, the Compassion spirit tilted his head, and just as the mage expected, he declared, "I cannot raise the dead, Dorian."

"Nor should you!" the mage laughed. "No, not at all! You'd put me out of a job, that you would,” he agreed. Thoughtfully, tactically quiet for a long moment, Dorian wiggled his ringed fingers around the Soul carefully. It doesn't have a particular texture, he concluded, though it does have a weight, and a substance of sorts. It is rather something like petting an ephemeral hamster, if one was not averse to a somewhat undignified comparison. The Soul flickered slightly, and somehow it made him think of a shiver. It was hard to say how aware Cullen was of the Fade, but even live _soporati_ found the experience overwhelming at times.

Though the impressions he had been receiving throughout their encounter were tiny, jagged little pieces of the whole, and though he was unfamiliar with the man himself, he had begun to add to the impression building in his mind - a dry, wicked humor, perhaps, and a warm flurry of embarrassment, maybe? A simple warmth suffused the Soul throughout even its saddest emotions.

"But, Cole..." he began again, slyly, "If someone _else_ were to perform all of the unsavory, _dead-raising_ necromantic shenanigans,” he offered slowly, “...then would you not be able to, perhaps, bestow a gift of Compassion to help him survive?" He knew, even before the question was fully asked, that the answer would still be a refusal.

“What if… what if I hurt the Soul?” he pressed, his mouth going dry as he swallowed. “What if I returned him to his body and then abandoned him? You cannot ask a man to go on in such a way - it is unnatural and cruel. Would it not be an act of _mercy_ to fix that small bit of flesh for him, once he is already bound to it?” he asked, and took a breath, clenching his teeth. “If I did such a thing, would you not, perhaps, save him from _me?_ ”

Cole spoke nothing at first, and Dorian was afraid that he had perhaps insulted or offended - or worse, tempted toward corruption - one of the few spirits who ever willingly visited him in friendship. “It would be cruel,” the boy agreed softly. “But you are not a cruel man, Dorian. You feared, and fled far, to forego that future.” With remote eyes, he seemed to look right through the mage and the Soul. "I am sorry, Dorian. I cannot help you. Nor your bonded one, I am afraid."

Gravely disappointed, Dorian drew in a breath and sighed deeply. Something in his chest shivered, and in response the Soul in his hands shivered, and brightened. Cullen became warmer, for _his_ sake. A soft smile flitted over his face in response. "I - I do understand, Cole,” he acquiesced at last. “Thank you, regardless," he tried to smile. Twenty-four hours prior, he could hardly have imagined that he would find himself a married man, and defending a Soul in the Fade; similarly, he didn't expect to feel such darkness at the refusal now. "You are a spirit of Compassion, and you cannot go against your nature, or do what is outside your abilities. Though perhaps I could stand a visit from you again in the nights to come," he added bitterly.

"Keep your promise, Dorian," Cole advised him, and though he was a peaceful spirit, there was an undercurrent to his tone that sent a frisson of cold down the mage's spine. "You gave your word you would do what was within your power to restore him, whether or not you were successful; you must follow through, for good or ill. Take those steps which you yourself are able to take."

 _Not disturbing in the least_ , Dorian thought, and he nodded jerkily just as the Compassion spirit disappeared. “Goodbye, Cole.” The disappearance left him alone with the Soul of his _coniunx_. He nuzzled into the warmth thoughtlessly, letting the heat like the scorch of summer’s sun bloom across his cheeks and his nose in his chill perception of the Fade.

"Well then, my dear," Dorian straightened his metaphysical collar with one hand, clearing his throat, and he joined the faded tableau of himself and the handsome body of his husband, kneeling down next to the apparition of the Commander's armored body. It vaguely occurred to him that it was a strangely vivid image for something as incorporeal as a Soul to be able to conjure, even with the help of a powerful mage such as himself. "Such a strong-willed thing you are.” He felt a faint prickle between his fingertips, though he could not assign any meaning to it.

Settling in, he swallowed and looked their bodies over thoughtfully. "I'm afraid we are missing a very important piece of the puzzle, here. Still, I told you I would try. So, now, I am going to push you back into your body. I cannot promise you that you will be... technically living, though from what I have studied, your Soul should be housed within your flesh until I run out of mana. Is this truly what you want? Have you any way to agree to this... this desecration?"

Dorian could not have explained it to an outsider, but as he ran his fingers over the bright little Soul, he felt a sense of lassitude overcome him - a peaceful, agreeable sensation. "I'll take that for a yes, then, _mea coniunx_. Once I have pushed you into your body, I will have to leave the room and grab my bag - I will drink as many lyrium potions as I can to help keep you anchored, though I know not what we hope to achieve.” Were they physical together, a kiss on the cheek would be warranted, for luck. As it was, he merely brushed all his fingertips over the aura of the Soul, and received in return anxiety, trust, fear, and longing. “Do be brave, though I suspect that has never been a problem for one such as yourself."

So saying, he gently pushed the Soul back to its body from the direction of the Fade, not unlike nudging a rock down a hill toward the bottom of the slope. Once he felt somewhat sure that the Soul was out of immediate danger of predators, he sent a blast of Force Magic through his barriers within the Fade, warning any and sundry, "And the lot of you will stay out unless you wish me to come back here!"

The Fadescape was momentarily quiet, and so, with a last look around, Dorian allowed himself to return fully across the Veil to the waking world. The body of his spouse lay still in repose, and there was no visible sign of any change, not that he expected any. Looking down into the care-worn face for just a moment, he thought back on the pure, untainted emotions he had felt in the Fade, touching his Soul.

Startled, the mage realized that Cullen Rutherford had become _real_ to him.

Shaking himself now that he was firmly back on the physical side, he performed the full spell which he knew would summon the closest Soul from the Fade - and he did it as quickly as possible, slamming the lines of the glyph into place around them, hoping to prevent anything potentially dangerous from subverting the ritual. The final runes of the _Mortalitasi_ school, which allowed limited movement of the body through the will of the caster, was left out of the spell glyph deliberately, in this case. When the glyph at last flared, bright white in the dark candle- and incense-lit room, he closed his eyes and extended his senses, panting in a breath of incense-laden air with his sudden exertion.

Now that he was familiar with some of the flavors of this man’s Soul, he felt reasonably assured that it was the right Soul in the body - after all, he’d done half the work from the other side, beforehand, which was unusual in itself. Sighing in relief, he leaned forward, and pressed one long-fingered, dark-skinned hand over those around the hilt of the sword. "Now. I know you are present, though you likely cannot hear me. Wait for me, _mea coniunx_. I'll be back to your side in a flash."

Reeling and rising to his feet on stiff limbs, Dorian bit his lip and tottered out of the private room of the small inn, back into the main room. Here, his eldest new sister-in-law kept watch at the bar, contemplatively, her siblings having been sent to bed. Mia greeted him with first a smile, and then a concerned frown, that his wedding night vigil had been disturbed.

"I need lyrium," he explained in a rush, feeling the draining pull of the _Mortalitasi_ spell on his mana from the other room. She pointed wordlessly to the room they had procured for him, and he dashed through, grabbing up his bag of potions. The door across the hall opened, and Rosalie poked her head out sleepily, frowning.

Rather than inquire as to what was going on, she shut the door behind her and shuffled out to the taproom, sitting next to her sister with big sleepy eyes. “....’aaas goin’ on?” She mumbled against the back of her hand, around a sizable yawn. Mia bit her lip and shrugged. Dorian paused, leaning against the edge of the bar near them, letting Rosalie catch him when he threatened to fall forward onto his face. Hurriedly, he yanked at the cork in one of his bottles of lyrium, guzzling the glowing blue liquid in relief as his mana stores began to slowly perk up.

As he did, his eyes landed on a new face sitting at the bar - not Branson, but another Fereldan-bred stranger. "My goodness," he said as Dorian’s gaze fell upon him, eyebrows rising over the rim of his pint glass in some surprise. He was a bit older, in his forties perhaps, and absolutely soaked with the rain the Tevinter man had not realized was absolutely pissing down outside.

A small tuxedo-patterned cat poked its head out of the dry inner pocket of his coat, and wormed its way out and onto the bartop, where the barkeeper had placed a bowl of cat-friendly cream stew for him. The rough-looking man with the messy blonde hair and unshaven stubble followed his baffled glance to the absurdity of his cat’s presence, and then up to meet his eyes with a curious smile. "That's quite the spell you have brewing there, isn't it messere?"

"Who are you?" Dorian blurted in surprise. But of course, he had to be a mage - as if the staff still strapped to the back of his coat didn't give it away, his eyes were following an invisible trail linking caster and subject through the Fade with evident scrutiny.

Eyes widening at the blunt demand, the man stroked his cat with one heavy hand, making its back arch. "No one," he replied, surprised golden eyebrows rising as he set down his pint glass. "Only I've just arrived out of the rain. Lucky I saw - well, not sure what it was. A will-o-wisp, perhaps?”

Branson had stirred and come out of one of the small rented rooms, settling against a wall behind the exhausted-looking barkeeper, arms crossed. He offered the strange new mage a preoccupied half-smile as the man met his eyes, listening to him speak. Perhaps that was what his spouse had looked like when he smiled? Plus the rakish scar, naturally.

"Andraste’s knicker-weasels,” the man went on scathingly, “I was damn near _lost_ in this torrential rain, but then I saw a blue light glowing, and I followed - here I am!" The cat bumped up against his chest on the edge of the bartop, and he ran a pleased hand down its spine once more, fingers offering many curling scritches beneath its chin in tribute. "Here _we_ are."

" _Do_ forgive me," Dorian cut off the tale, marching over to grab the man's arm, "...but I don't really care. Can you heal?"

Sputtering in some surprise, the man almost fell off of the back of his stool as Dorian seized him up. "Um, yes, I'm a Spirit H-"

“Bloody _marvellous_ ; thank the Maker,” Dorian breathed. Before the phrase could even finish falling from his stubbled face, Dorian was dragging him toward the back room, holding a hand up toward the alarmed Rutherford clan. "Everything is fine! We're fine!"

"W-watch my cat! His name’s Mister Fishes!" were the last words they likely heard at the bar before the door of the private room slammed behind them.

Setting down the bag of potions, as he plopped back down to the wooden platform next to the fallen soldier, the _altus_ gestured the man forward impatiently. "I'm Dorian, of House Pavus, some time ago of Minrathous. This is my - newlywed - husband, Cullen Rutherford."

"Newl-? Oh." He sat down next to the body, and looked him over carefully. He clearly intoned a quick prayer to Andraste and the Maker, and then he gently looked across the body to the anxious Tevinter man. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he began, gathering his thoughts gently before getting the reluctantly firm tone of every doctor who ever had to break bad news. “I - I hate to tell you this, but... your husband is dead. You... you do _know_ that, yes?"

“Yes,” he drawled slowly. “He was rather that way when I met him.”

“Oh,” the man settled his coat around his shoulders uncertainly, brushing stray water droplets off of the feathery pauldrons.

“That’s rather the problem, you see,” he began carefully.

"Ahh. Well, I’m Fereldan myself, though I have been away awhile," the mage responded uncomfortably while Dorian paused to gather his thoughts. "I mean, I know how the Chantry feels, but memory serving, the outcome of your husband still being dead should not have been entirely _unexpected_ \- unless, of course, you married him under the pretext that he was still alive,” he supposed aloud. “That would have been... er, a bit uncouth, on their part? I suppose. Though not illegal, technically..." Dorian stared at him as he rambled on thoughtfully.

Interrupting the man as gently as he was able, Dorian cleared his throat. "I am a Necromancer," he explained patiently, though that patience was wearing thin, "...trained in the _Mortalitasi_ school. This man's Soul is still in his body. Right now!" He tapped one finger emphatically against Cullen's cuirass, and this strange mage looked just a touch offended by the gesture. "I want you to... to make his body work again," he declared, raising his chin with every inch of his altus dignity, and crossed his arms.

"You - you honestly think it works like that?" the Fereldan mage asked, not unkindly, but more than a touch incredulously. He shook the rain off the feathery pauldrons of his coat and shucked the damp garment, setting it aside. "You're one of those _"can't be arsed to heal"_ Necromancers, aren't you,” he muttered.

Ignoring the scorn in his tone, Dorian lowered his palms to his knees. "What's the problem?" he demanded stoutly. "His Soul is strong, but we don't have much time! I can use lightning magic to shock his heart - it's an accepted first aid technique in Tevinter for heart stoppages," he said reassuringly, as though he were completely confident that it could work.

Choking back something between a laugh and a snarl, the other man sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Look, there is so much more to it than that."

"I don't need a lecture, I need _labor!_ " he snapped his fingers, and the other mage glared at him, still staring incredulously. “I felt his Soul, in the Fade - he’s very strong, even Compassion thinks so,” he hedged, earning a wide-eyed blink. “He’s more intent on returning to his body than any Soul I’ve ever encountered, and it’s…” Dorian bit his lip. “He spent his life protecting others - his siblings were very proud of that, and having met him after a fashion, I believe he was clearly a man who put himself last.” He sighed in frustration. “It’s just - _unfair_.”

Mouth opening, the Healer gazed at him in profundity. “Listen,” he began, his voice gentling further. “The body can be very hardy in the right circumstances - but as a Necromancer, you of all people must know how undeniable the forces of entropy are once they have taken hold.” His hand was hovering over Cullen’s chest, however, and the blood of two millennia of _alti_ in Dorian’s veins hummed at the perception of weakness. “The sheer effort of maintaining his body magically, long enough for it to fend for itself…”

"What will it take?" Dorian ground out harshly; he ripped rings from his fingers - all except the humble silver band the Rutherfords had provided, which would fetch no real value other than sentimental - and yanked the birthright from around his throat, laying it all down in the Healer's lap. "Will that do? If not, I can get more money - provided you can wait for it to arrive." Then and there, he realized he’d sell himself back to his family - back to blood slavery, if he had to - and he didn’t even have the luxury of the time to be fucking _terrified_ by it.

Scowling, the Spirit Healer pushed the jewelry off his lap so that it clattered onto the wooden platform next to the fallen soldier. "Sodding 'Vint," he muttered. "Can you at least tell me how he died?" He demanded, and Dorian winced.

"I, er... it was a battle wound," he supplied, uncertainly. "Sword wound, I think his elder sister said, but…”

“Of course - they’d want him to look perfect,” the man muttered, and leaned closer to him, pulling his jaw open gently, nose positioned at his lips, breathing in with a little cough. “That’s the honey from the ceremony?” he asked, touching the faintly gleaming slick left on his lips. Dorian nodded. “I don’t smell any preservation chemicals - you can thank your in-laws for their traditionalism, at least.” Blinking, Dorian nodded faintly, eagerly.

Sighing deeply, the man picked up the sword in Dorian’s husband’s grasp, easing it out of the Commander's hands. "Well, we'll have to remove his armor then," he said, and the two mages began unbuckling the man from his cuirass about as quickly as two cats deciphering the operation of a can opener. "If he's, er... beg pardon, messere," he said to the Commander's frowning face, "... _missing_ anything, then you can just _forget_ this little misadventure and send him to the Maker, post-haste!"

“You have my word,” he promised solemnly. It wouldn’t violate his promise - neither Cole nor Cullen would hold it against him, surely, if this part was outside of his ability. Right?

After some time, the cause of the wound was located - a sizable sword wound to the abdomen. The Healer winced and hovered his hands over his stomach. "I can't feel much now... can you try your _Tevinter First Aid?_ " He snorted as he asked it, withdrawing his hands further.

Dorian uncorked another vial of lyrium and placed a hand over the location where the man's heart should reside. He sent a strong, but measured, flicker of lightning into his chest. The crackling light arced up through his form. "Again," his companion bid, and he did so, a little stronger this time.

Somehow, he almost felt connected to the body, through his living _Mortalitasi_ glyph; it allowed him to feel the other mage chasing the flickers of magic left in the wake of the _altus_ ’ lightning spell. That energy carried him throughout the flesh beneath. "I think... I think most everything is still in place, though damaged," he grimaced, and Dorian sipped at the lyrium potion with a distracted nod. He felt the fringe of magic as the Healer manifested a hydration spell, working deep into the tissues.

 _He's stronger when you hold him,_ Cole had said, and he found himself taking the man's hand in his own. He sensed the gentle, gradual filling of his tissues with fluid in the wake of the spell, and silently appreciated that the Healer, blown in by a perfect storm, was truly _trying_ to make the impossible possible. The Healer’s succession of spells, illuminating the two mages in blues and greens and bright golds, pushed liquid, air, nutrients, and other necessities into the warrior from top to toe.

The glow of magic surrounded his body, in successive waves, though each faded gradually. "More lightning, as I direct you. Shorter, but stronger. Double what you did before." His sharp brown eyes darted up toward the _altus_. “I must capitalize upon your spellcasting to attempt to rebuild some of the most delicate parts of him which have already been affected - lungs, capillaries and such - and most likely, even if the _absolutely insane_ occurs and this succeeds, he’ll likely be sterile.”

Nodding, Dorian gulped the rest of the lyrium potion and tossed the bottle aside, placing another bottle next to the Fereldan mage before he rested his hands on the Commander's chest. "Now." He pushed a short, sharp burst of lightning through - enough to make the man's body leap from the platform reflexively. Immediately, the Healer’s hands were upon him, pushing light through him so brightly the seams of his eyes and mouth seemed to glow. It was horrific; Dorian looked away, grimacing.

In such a manner, they hot-swapped - avoiding a direct circuit so that Dorian did not absorb the Healer’s magic, and the other mage yanking his hands back to negate the possibility of a nasty shock from the lightning. Dorian casually cast a rejuvenation glyph onto the floor around them, and the Healer nodded curtly in approval.

“Alright,” the dishevelled and rain-soaked healer held both hands around the man’s head, and the last few pulses of his healing magic focused around the face and skull. Dorian carefully reached across and uncapped the lyrium potion, holding it to the man’s lips, watching him imbibe it distractedly. “Almost,” he completed the thought left hanging in the air, swallowing the thick substance with a grimace.

“I’ll say this, if there’s one area where your southern Circles don’t slack, it’s in healing,” he muttered, receiving a bark of bitter humor.

“Give us one more _strong_ one, then get the hell back,” he muttered. Dorian nodded, ducking to dash his sweating forehead against his own shoulder and just fucking _praying_ like he hadn’t done since the day he realized the Maker didn’t write happy endings for deviants. He pushed lightning through the warrior’s body one more time, then threw himself back off the edge of the platform.

Before he could have thought to prepare himself for such a thing, the man's eyes blinked open a searing, bright blue - brighter than Cole, brighter than anything he'd ever seen with his physical eyes. Crying out against the shock, he jerked back, watching cracks of blue appear along the lines of his cheekbones, down his face. " _Venhedis,_ " he swore. "What in the world...?"

Even as he questioned what he was seeing, and whether he was in fact still sleeping - or had hit his head perhaps - the glow of healing magic flared brightly in the room, enveloping the entire body and searing the _altus'_ vision into bright spots. Startled cries came from the taproom as the light breached the confines of the private room, and Dorian threw a barrier across the door reflexively, as a precaution.

An interminable number of seconds later, the glow of healing faded, and the man's body was clean and whole beneath their hands. Dorian grabbed his hand protectively. For the first time, it felt warm, and he marvelled, looking expectantly toward his face. The lifeless slackening of his jaw put rest to that hope; the warmth was clearly due to the residual energy of the magic. He marvelled at the healed body, but although the Soul still remained, there was no spark of life in it to connect the two.

Eyes rising to examine his co-conspirator with a healthy new dose of caution, Dorian swallowed hard. "So, ah... Soul's still there,” he advised, “...and the body looks... well, he looks good. He'd be just my type, if he were living,” he admitted, earning another distracted snort from the healer.

"Little did I realize I was signing up to help with a Spirit Marriage dating service," the healer cracked back at him, taking the fresh lyrium potion Dorian offered him in hand. "I don't know what else we can..." he paused, and looked at the glowing blue liquid. He glanced then at the singe marks on the man's clothing, and a thoughtful expression came onto his face. "...It _might_ work," he muttered speculatively.

"...What might work?" Dorian, who was very familiar with hearing that tone from his own lips, perked up right away. Pursuing insanity was practically a way of life for him, after all.

"Well... I mean, it's never been tried, that I know..." he downed the lyrium potion in a gulp. "But, no time like the present!” He offered cheerily. “I'm... taking some inspiration from an old friend. You'd best let go of him," the healer advised.

Just as he said this, he burst into bright blue again, light pouring from his eyes like pure Fade portals, and his hand hovered over the body. Somehow, the outline of a blue limb plunged down from his own frame, right into the Commander's chest. Dorian swallowed a strangled gasp as some apparition of an arm seemed to reach straight into his chest. The mage worked his fingers in a squeezing motion in the air above the body, and as he did, he uttered in a booming, echoing voice, "Lightning. Again. _Stronger_."

What could he do but obey? They weren’t touching, so there was no immediate danger, and clearly they were almost equally invested at this point. He slid his hands onto the dearly departed’s chest, skimming just beneath the other mage's hovering hand. The outline of the blue limb twisted eerily in the vicinity of his heart. Just as Dorian obeyed the command, both the spectral and physical arm squeezed, and began to pump as though squeezing water from a sponge. The Healer’s other hand came up, forming a second spectral limb, and pressed hard down and _into_ his torso, between lungs and diaphragm. With a dry, rasping gasp, the lungs in the man's chest stuttered in a fresh draught of real air.

Dorian uttered a bark of incredulity - maybe it would become laughter, if this proved to be a true success - but as soon as that first twinge of elation hit, the man began choking, gasping. The two spectral hands inside his body did not falter in their manipulation. His limbs flailed weakly, fingers clawing at the wooden platform, some inhuman noise emerging. Panicked, he reached over and patted, then gripped, the man’s arms ineffectually. Even having been dead, he was still almost frightfully strong. "What do we _do?_ " he demanded.

Standing with careful gestures, the Healer threw one leg over the Dorian's husband's hips, looking down at him from above, and applied a fresh burst of healing magic with his free hand. More choking, more emphatic swinging, like someone reacting to a hand around their throat. Dorian tried his best to keep the man from setting back their work or causing them injury.

Moving carefully, "Turn him over!" he withdrew his hand from the man's chest - the blue, spectral-looking one piercing his heart, and lifted his other leg over the man to settle down on the same side as the _altus_. As he went, he carefully kept the hand in his abdomen in place, squeezing or flexing inside, forcing air through him as the other hand glowed with the aura of healing.

Dorian levered him over onto his side, patting him on the back. Some viscous, half-congealed fluid began to emerge from his mouth and nose, and he glanced at the Healer in alarm. He looked like a normal man again, and was reaching for one of Dorian's potions. "Get it out of him if you can," he urged.

“You don’t make it sound bloody optional,” he grunted conversationally. Cleaning him up as best they cloud, Dorian helped the man weakly propel streams of semi-solid matter from his throat, hearing him breathe better afterward. Healing with one hand, the blonde-haired Spirit Healer searched Dorian's bag for an embrium potion, easing the poor man back onto his back. "We must get this and water into him," he snapped authoritatively. "Go see if the bar can give us at least clean water and a spoon."

“Is he even breathing on his own?” Dorian demanded fearfully. Demonstratively, the man withdrew his hand from the body of the fallen warrior. Weakly - ever so weakly, the man _fought_ the very weight of gravity, a tiny breath making its way into his chest, eyes shut more tightly than they ever had been in death.

“Not for long,” the Healer snapped pointedly. Dorian jerked himself to his feet obediently.

In the taproom, Mia was the only one of the Rutherfords left awake, and she restlessly stroked the black and white cat, who curled up in her arms contentedly. "Dorian!" she cried, when he emerged, stool scraping behind her as she stood. "I sent my siblings along to bed. Tell me what is going on? You are meant to be..."

He snapped urgently for water and a spoon from the barkeeper, and turned to her. "You... you won't believe it ‘til you see it, Mistress Mia," Dorian grabbed her hand and the spoon, taking up the cup of water as soon as it was delivered. "Come - er, bring Mister Fishes, I suppose," he added carelessly. “The more the merrier.”

Dragging her back into the room, he bade her to sit some distance away from the head of the bed, out of the range of the two working mages. Nodding politely to their new arrival, though he looked almost haggard with exhaustion, the healer moved to sit on the far side. Dorian took up the spoon, and they alternated pressing spoonfuls of water and then healing potion to his lips.

"What - what is this?" Mia demanded, aghast.

Weakly, the man on the platform took in a breath that wheezed through his lungs and opened his eyes - lovely eyes, Dorian noted, golden brown like dark raw honey - and stared at the ceiling, unfocused. "M-Mia?" he whispered, more breath than sound.

"Goodness me," Dorian murmured. He reached out with one long-fingered hand, pushing curls, newly soaked with sweat, away from his face. "Hello, handsome." A corner of his mouth - that scarred side - twitched upward reflexively. Those pretty eyes blinked, unable to fully focus on him.

" _Cullen!_ " Scrambling forward and leaving Mister Fishes to fend for himself, Mia half draped herself over her brother, beholding the previously wounded skin bared by his loosened tunic, now hale and whole, with wonder. " _How?_ How is this even possible?" Yet she was already sobbing and squeezing his hand. She looked between the two mages desperately for explanation.

"There are... a great many maladies in our world that are still mysterious, Mistress Mia," Dorian cleared his throat, spinning their half-truth even as it occurred to him. "Fortunately, we were blessed, at just the right time, by the appearance of a powerful Spirit Healer," he gazed across at the man who raised an eyebrow at him, waving one hand with a flourish.

As he contemplated the timing of events, the suddenness of his arrival, and his story of the blue wisp, came back to him in a sudden flash. "One might say... it was an act of Compassion from the other side, hmm?"

Frowning thoughtfully, the healer gave him a wry expression, shifting to stretch his neck and shoulders. "Well, Mistress," he added, as Mia dashed tears from her face, "Fortunately, you had a mage who recognized your brother’s Soul was still here."

Faintly, the _altus_ smiled back at the other mage, and reached over to clap him on the shoulder. The man handed him back his birthright, and he realized how foolish he'd been to discard it in the first place. Exhausted, he looped it around his neck, letting Mia take up the position where she could cluck at her brother and spoon liquids into him. He eased himself back onto his heels, gathering the effects in his bag, and found his coin purse.

Wearily, Dorian reached over and dropped a stack of sovereigns into the healer's hand, refusing to take them when he tried to hand them back, laughing quietly. He went on to sort through his belongings, piling up the remaining potions he had in the bag - a hefty sum’s worth of lyrium and healing potions. Keeping just a couple back for himself in case of emergencies, he stacked the rest of them between Cullen and the Healer.

Feeling a gaze upon him, he looked down to find his _coniunx spiritus_ gazing at him, unflinchingly, though his eyes were tired and bloodshot. His gaze was just hazy enough that Dorian somehow doubted that he could really see him.

" _Thank you,_ " he rasped, and Dorian felt something warm flip over in his stomach. Even as it did, however, that sensation twisted from wholesome to frightened, and he swallowed.

"My pleasure," he replied, his voice rumbling out of his chest with a burr of fatigue, though he couldn't quite keep himself from offering a wink. The resulting smile it earned was heartfelt but weak, and drawing breath to continue speaking to him nearly sent the man into a fit of coughing again.

As he watched the man's sister press in to tearfully fuss over him, eliciting input on occasion from the Healer, Dorian realized how very spur-of-the-moment the entire past day had been. He was drained - physically, emotionally, and magically - and he really just wanted to sleep. The towheaded siblings had even the healer chuckling as the sister teased her brother about how awful he was to go off and pretend to die on them.

It was a warm, happy moment for them, and he could not help but feel as though it were too picturesque. The sensation of cold, dusty stillness that one got when looking into the depths of an oil painting in a museum settled into his stomach, pushing him out of the frame of the portrait quietly.

Dorian reflected on the tale no one would ever believe when he recounted it. He had certainly learned a lot, and he was happy to have done something good - simply for the sake of _being good_. He could not think of the last time he had done so in Tevinter. However, listening to their warm, Fereldan-accented voices, he realized abruptly that there was nothing more for him here.

Surely a living man does not need his spouse chosen for him through a Spirit Marriage - time for that flock of dogs and herd of children, even if they were not children of his body; time even to break those chains Cole had warned him about. Standing, he winced feeling back into his knees, twisting to encourage blood flow into his shaky limbs.

When Mia looked up at him, startled at his lingering presence like a deer in the woods, her brother's face was already slacking into what the Healer assured them was natural sleep. Dorian gestured over his shoulder out toward the bar, forcing a smile to his countenance. "I'm parched," he explained. "You'll look after him?" When she nodded eagerly, smiling warmly at him, he returned the expression, and slipped out of the door with his bag.

He indulged in the finest, not-so-fine vintage the house possessed, and added it to the Rutherfords' tab. They could certainly buy him a drink after he brought them back a brother and beggared himself to pay the Healer, he reasoned. Feeling simultaneously both starved and sated, deep in his chest, Dorian stretched again and yawned. Restless and surprisingly miserable, the _altus_ realized quickly that he could not endure here - he would not withstand any more gratitude or explanations, or he would certainly go quite mad. Let the Healer get the credit.

Well, no matter, he consoled himself - he'd studied through the night before and gone all day after, though not for many a year. One last time suited him well enough. Tucking his birthright back into his robe, though he fought the urge to chuck the thing as always, he gathered the remainder of his belongings from the empty room he had been given, and tightened the laces of his boots. Dorian consulted his map, and elected to go east to meet the Imperial Highway. Jader was some distance from Denerim, but he would get there eventually. Perhaps by then, he'd have forgotten the fact that he had no place in this world.

Walking out of the creaking door, he took a few steps past the stables and down toward the end of the single rutted track through the little hamlet. He climbed the hill as it rose, and as he did, he couldn’t help but feel he was slowly stretching himself; a piece of his flesh seemed to grow more and more taut, ripping slowly until it bled with every step.


	2. Chapter 2

The road to Denerim did not make an uneventful trip - of course, it never was. There were always interesting individuals with quaint customs, and far too many dogs, to encounter. He was accustomed to his boots being caked with mud. Since he was becoming familiar with the customs, he was more quickly becoming able to charm the locals into a ride to whatever farmer's market or tiny hamlet they travelled to, so long as it was heading ever eastward.

Occasionally he found himself sitting on the back of some vegetable cart, _fancy walking stick_ across his knees, watching the dull play of light on the silver ring he wore on his left hand. Each time he remembered that painfully-voiced _Thank You_ , and reminded himself that he had done a Good Thing; and also, that a living man didn’t need a Spirit Spouse. What would he do, drag the man around Thedas studying strange cultural customs? Set him up in a fancy _insula_ in Minrathous, where his father could easily locate them and either shame or bribe the man out of Tevinter, or have him removed forcibly? No; he was best off with his loving siblings. The marriage could be annulled without Dorian’s presence. Best to move on.

Reaching Denerim was a slap in the face - many, many people again, and for once, he was not the best bathed among them. Much cacophony and noise - after the wilderness, Denerim felt so big that his own memories of Minrathous left him laughing. Why, the whole city of Denerim would barely fill the noble quarter of Minrathous alone!

Asking around, the Tevinter man found himself decent accommodations at a two-story inn near the market, The Pearl or something, he didn't care - and ordered a vintage finer than he'd had in a while. After that, he looked into his coin purse and realized it was not so full as he would have liked. In fact, even being monstrously stingy along the Imperial Highway, and camping out, he was quite destitute. Well, at least he had made it here, and in Denerim, he had a chance to get work for his skills.

For the next few weeks, he found himself lending an aura of quiet if gregarious authority to an enchanted items shop near the Denerim market square. It paid hardly enough to cover his accommodations, even when he charmed the proprietor with his silver tongue - until some rowdy bunch of mercenaries came in and he sweetly _convinced_ them to vacate with a well-timed Horror spell. That kind deed earned him a twenty-five percent decrease in accommodation rates, provided he could be called upon as needed.

One evening, he rewarded himself with his first drink of a _decent_ vintage in quite a while, relaxing at the table and watching the light shimmer across his sole remaining ring. Oh, he’d realized before he’d passed Lake Calenhad that he’d left all of his pretty baubles in payment to the conveniently-located owner of Mister Fishes, but it would have been terribly uncouth to retrieve any of them at that point - even the heirloom ruby or the onyx dragon Maevaris had gifted to him. So he lamented them momentarily, but he doubted he would have traded for all of them versus the one ring he had - the reminder of that remarkable evening - his entire so-called _marriage_ , he chuckled to himself. Once again, he let the feeling rest and raised his goblet.

"Excuse me," a hesitant voice spoke from his peripheral vision. "Is this seat taken?"

"Not at all," he replied with a careless wave of his hand. "You may feel free to appropriate it for your own party," he offered. Instead, however, he was surprised when the stranger actually sat across from him - a well-kept and shockingly beardless Dwarf, who was apparently willing to sit down with a foreign person of unmistakably magical inclination.

The Dwarven man wore a tunic of well-kempt Highever Weave, festooned with an eye-catching border of golden embroidery of which Dorian’s _altus_ senses approved greatly. The man smiled at him, charmingly wide and seemingly quite sincere. That was the moment when he realized that, despite all his efforts to keep a low profile in Denerim, Dorian of House Pavus had somehow found himself neck-deep in trouble once again.

“Do I know you, friend?” he asked easily, taking a leisurely moment to upend the last of the wine carafe into his goblet. No sense letting his self-indulgent purchase go to waste, he reasoned, sipping delicately at the wine he’d bought and paid for with his own labor - still a novel enough concept to give him a flash of gritty pride - and eyeing the smirking Dwarf. He wore thick gloves but left his chest bare halfway to his navel, sporting an impressive forest of red-blonde chest hair, not unlike the fine hair upon his head. The mage raised one dark eyebrow in recognition of a fellow outcast’s undeniable panache.

“I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced yet, though I’ve been looking forward to it,” the Dwarven man told him. His words were not entirely genuine, although there was in fact a glimmer of interest there. “The name is Varric Tethras. I have it on good authority that you are Dorian Pavus.”

“Hmmm… Serrah Tethras, like the writer?” Dorian allowed a healthy skepticism into his voice. “Well, I’m afraid you have a case of mistaken identity,” he bluffed smoothly, and apparently he did so just well enough to bring a frown of concentration to the Dwarven man’s face. “I’ve never heard of this fellow you mentioned. My name is Felix,” he smiled, showing a few teeth, just as the Dwarven man had done. “Felix Alexius.”

“Ohh, I see,” Ser Tethras looked thoughtful, one gloved finger rising to his mouth, though not quickly enough to hide a twinkle of amusement. Despite that little moment of doubt, Dorian felt fairly sure that his bluff had completely deflated. “Well, please forgive me for the confusion, Messere Alexius,” he half-bowed in his seat. “But you must understand, the person I seek happens to be a man of Tevinter, not unlike that accent I hear in your voice. I know it’s terribly inconvenient, but maybe you could answer a few questions about Minrathous for me?”

“It’s all true,” Dorian told him abruptly, draining his goblet smoothly. “ _Particularly_ the bits about the grapes and feathers.” With that, he gathered his feet, and made to rise.

“I _knew_ it,” Varric crowed, grinning.

“I hope that I’ve been of some aid to you in the creation of your next _novel_ , serrah,” Dorian stood. “Now you must excuse me; I’m certain your friend awaits you, and the thrilling nightlife of Denerim awaits _me_. Good eve to you,” he slid out of his chair with a careless wave over his shoulder, slipping away before the Dwarf could stutter out an excuse to detain him.

Climbing the tiny wooden staircase at double-time as soon as he was out of sight, Dorian scanned the vicinity for any signs of further pursuit. He wouldn’t put it past Halward Pavus to hire the most unassuming gaolers to return him to Qarinus - even the chambermaids were suspect, so far as he was concerned. He had little in the way of belongings; he could slip out the servants’ entrance and find new accommodations - even his job could be tossed aside at a moment’s notice. He would not, however, abandon his research and the notes about -

Opening his tiny rented room’s wooden door, Dorian was shocked absolutely shitless to find his little room half-filled with a brutish-looking Qunari, rifling through his notes and reading them with his _one eye_ which was not under an eyepatch, double-bearded axe strapped unabashedly to his back. His mouth fell open, and the scarred face of the horned thug curled into a self-satisfied smirk, realizing it was on him to break the silence. “Hey.”

“Sweet Maker above, I am _dreadfully_ sorry,” Dorian began, barely avoiding a squeak to his voice by virtue of clearing his throat first. _Tal-Vashoth,_ he told himself frantically. This wasn’t Seheron, and his father would not have hired an actual Qunari. Definitely a _Tal-Vashoth_. “I seem to have barged straight into the wrong room, wherever _are_ my manners? The wine, you see,” he babbled, turning around, only to find his path blocked by an apologetic-looking Dwarf who had followed him up the stairs.

“Yeah, that’s not how this is gonna go,” the horned warrior told him, shuffling his papers into a pile. “Good try, though. Bet you could talk yourself out of a lynch mob, ‘Vint.”

“....And have done,” Dorian muttered.

“So this is really him, Tiny?” Varric asked, giving him the once-over again.

“ _Tiny_ ,” Dorian repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “If that is really his name, then I will absolutely assume that this entire ridiculous situation is a dream, and _shall_ act accordingly,”

“You can call me The Iron Bull,” the _Tal-Vashoth_ interjected magnanimously.

“Well, how often have you introduced yourself by that name, to be told that it was actually the _more desirable_ alternative?” Dorian asked, bantering with his would-be kidnappers, quite despite his own incredulity and burgeoning panic. “Bravo, ser.”

Varric choked on a chortle in the back of his throat. “This’ll be a fun trip.”

“ _Trip_ ,” Dorian repeated, his heart sinking. “Need I even ask who sent you?”

“Someone after you, big guy?” The large warrior seemed genially concerned.

“Yes indeed,” Dorian replied, crossing his arms as he entered full-on snark mode. “One of them is a tall fellow with hideous taste in pantaloons, and the other is a smarmy-looking Dwarven gentleman. If you see either of them, let us give them the slip, shall we?”

“ _Fun trip_ ,” Varric whispered again.

“Not sure who you’re expecting,” The Iron Bull murmured gruffly, stacking all of Dorian’s notes back together and binding them back up into the protective leather sleeves he carried them in as he stood. “We’re here on behalf of the Inquisition.”

Dorian looked up, and up, to meet his one sharply-piercing eye. Just the one eye seemed like it could look through all of his defensive bullshit, and it promised that he took his job quite seriously. “To attest to that, have I anything other than your say-so?”

Varric sighed. “Well… they don’t _brand_ us or anything,” he muttered. “But it’s the truth. The Inquisitor himself gave orders to us to travel all the way to Denerim to track you down.” The man shrugged expressively. “I could show them to you, though you’re smart enough to know that anything can exist on paper, whether or not it exists in the real world.”

“Oh well, if that is so, then I will certainly do my best to cooperate,” he replied primly.

Varric eyed him with a strained upturn of one corner of his mouth. “Was there even one percent of that statement that was true?”

“You seem like a smart man, Serrah Tethras - what do _you_ think?” Dorian’s fingers tightened on his elbows as he glowered back.

“...Right,” he rubbed the deep groove between his eyebrows. “Look. I’m not at the top of the food chain, and the truth is, I don’t know the full score about why you’re wanted,” the Dwarf told him, and it was blunt and unadorned enough that Dorian felt tempted to believe him. “What I _do_ know is that we have orders to… _escort_ you to Skyhold, and to avoid harming you in any way. In all honesty, it sounds more like the way we would treat a guest than a prisoner, and if they _wanted_ you to sweat, there are people a whole lot less pleasant they could have sent.”

Dorian looked back and forth between the two of them for a long moment. A surface Dwarf and a _Tal-Vashoth_ …certainly didn’t match Halward Pavus’ _modus operandi_. “Am I being accused of some sort of misconduct?” he asked, with creeping reluctance.

“Have you committed any?” the seven-foot-tall warrior asked bluntly.

“No,” he answered automatically. His mind flashed back on his Spirit Marriage, and then he shook his head firmly to clear the cobwebs. “No,” he repeated.

“Well, thanks for giving that some honest thought,” the big man rumbled a laugh low in his throat, smirking through a careless stubble. “Though if you have, it’s better to tell us now,” he cautioned, and something about the tone smacked of honesty. “We can’t help you if we don’t know about it.”

Swallowing hard, Dorian looked back and forth between the two. The Dwarf sported what looked like a giant crossbow on his back, and the _Tal-Vashoth_ could split him down the middle with that axe. Though he felt confident in his magic, he knew there was a good chance any _Tal-Vashoth_ might be well-trained to fight against Tevinter mages. “Is this about the Venatori?” he asked tentatively.

Charged suddenly, the atmosphere in the room shifted. “Now, what do you know about _that_ , might I ask?” Varric inquired, his tone superficially casual. The Iron Bull bored into him with the one eye, silently.

“Enough to be annoying, not enough to be dangerous,” he volunteered slowly. This could be a bargaining tool, and he didn’t want to give his chip away too soon. “I’m _not_ one, if that’s what you are wondering. Ridiculous ultra-patriotic claptrap - cutting one’s nose off to spite one’s face, really,” he opined, keeping his tone light.

“Well, _annoying_ the Venatori might make you a good friend of ours,” The Iron Bull offered, in a voice that accepted no alternatives. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, Pavus,” he said, crossing his own arms. “You’re gonna pack up your notes and all your… well, you don’t have much here, but you’ll pack it up. You’ll take a nice tour of the Ferelden countryside with us, and hey, you’re a scholar - seeing Skyhold will be like seeing history in the making,” he observed cheerily.

“Oh, bully for us,” he replied reflexively.

“The Inquisitor has some questions to ask you, once that’s all done with, you can go back home - or… wherever. Of course, anything you share about the Venatori will only sweeten the pot in your favor, wouldn’t you say? We like them about as much as you seem to.”

“Counteroffer,” Dorian replied. “I write down _everything_ I know about the Venatori. I leave it in this room, on this table. You come back first thing in the morning, collect the letter, and of course I’ll be peaceful, safe, and long gone by then. You get something; I get something. Everyone is happy!” he spread both hands beseechingly.

“You’re pretty good,” Varric muttered placidly.

“So you’ll do it, then?” he asked hopefully.

“No chance in hell; I just like your style.”

“Well, points to me, at least,” he sighed. “And if I am somehow found wanting in this endeavor to which I did not agree?”

“Well… the Boss is pretty reasonable,” The Iron Bull replied.

“So, you’re saying _hope for the best_ ,” Dorian finished glumly.

“Yeah, pretty much. Sorry.”

“Well. Do we at least get a good night’s sleep?” Dorian asked hopefully. “Frankly, I’m quite weary,” and he didn’t even have to feign the yawn.

“Yeah, sure,” the _Tal-Vashoth_ replied. “But not here. Pack up.”

Reluctantly, he followed the instruction. The taller warrior seemed to be expecting magical resistance, and the crossbow-wielding Dwarf seemed to be alert for any deception. The smart thing to do was to bide his time, he realized. Perhaps he’d even end up with a horse out of the deal, if he timed things right. Once he was all packed up, he sauntered down the stairs with his pack, between his two new gaolers, and they stopped at the counter, where Dorian stared at them with an unyielding gaze until one of the two - the horned warrior, as it turned out - grumbled and fished out the coin to pay the mage’s boarding tab.

The trip from Denerim to Skyhold would take quite some time, Dorian mused, and that left him plenty of opportunities to turn the tide and secure his freedom. He was disappointed, but not at all surprised, to find that they were joining up with a company of soldiers in Inquisition colors. That first night, there was always someone awake and keeping watch to prevent him from making an escape, and honestly, he was exhausted enough not to bother trying.

In the morning, Dorian’s mount was tied to that of The Iron Bull, a huge and placid draft horse which somehow bore the northern warrior without complaint. Varric did his best to lighten the mood, speaking of trivialities - games, literature, and when the _altus_ ’ conversation faltered, he took up a friendly banter of wagers and anecdotes with The Iron Bull regarding their mutual friends. One in particular, an Elven archer, seemed to generate the most stories with her grand and plebeian pranks. Even not knowing the characters involved, Dorian found the stories distracting enough to make the long days shorter.

Rubbing his fingers over the silver ring on his finger where it rested on the saddle horn, Dorian sighed deeply. When he’d landed in Jader he’d felt nauseous, but otherwise in control of his head and his life. Since then, however, he felt he was slowly taking one step after another away from the life with which he was familiar. Daily, he began to desire the presence of someone he trusted enough to give voice to that fear with.

“Wishing, wondering… wanting,” the voice in his ear spoke so softly it was more like the memory of words at first. “Wondering if he is well, if he was waiting, what he would do now. Does he even remember me?” The words were so true, but pricked him so sharply, that he sat upright and jerked his head around, looking behind him at the road, and to the curious glance of the _Tal-Vashoth_ beside him who carried the mage’s staff strapped next to his axe on his back.

Thoroughly distracted, he merely grunted in response to Varric’s next few attempts at conversation, missing the looks the man exchanged with Bull and the other members of their escort. “Whispers in the dark, _thank you_ , when his life washed back ashore. Would he even have wanted me? Will it ever be within reach?”

“Cole,” Dorian gasped. The voice was louder, and it was _solid_ , real in this physical world. Pinching himself _hard_ , he was forced to conclude that he was indeed awake. “ _Show yourself_.”

“Why didn’t you stay, Dorian? You should have asked, instead of wondered.” Behind him, the slightest presence; a breath on his neck, and when he looked back, the Compassion spirit in the ridiculous hat had alighted onto his mount behind him. “Why do you hold onto the hurt, like hurting is who you are?”

“It’s always lovely to see you, Cole,” he replied tensely, “...but now is really not the time for that conversation, you see. I have been abducted, if you have not noticed,” he pointed out through clenched teeth. He watched the white-blonde head under the hat swivel to take in their travelling companions.

“Foreign friendly feelings… they will not hurt you, Dorian.”

“Lovely to hear as much from you,” he pointed out, “...but I do not know them. They are not my friends,” he replied, his throat closing up momentarily. “The only friend I have here is _you_ , Cole - and I’m not even sure you are really here. What are you doing outside the Fade?”

“I came to help,” he replied softly.

“Who are you talking to, Dorian?” Varric asked. Just that quickly, Cole was missing.

“Ah… nothing - no one,” he amended sheepishly. “Never mind me.” After many speculative looks, the Dwarf returned his attention to the trail, and Dorian became aware of the Compassion spirit behind him again. “It would certainly be a lot easier for me if you would actually appear to others, instead of making me look like a madman,” he pointed out.

“I’m not sure I can,” Cole admitted. “But, I will try, because I am your _friend_.”

“Good lad,” he whispered.

By and by, the _Tal-Vashoth_ warrior looked over and caught sight of the strange, pale boy on his mount. “Varric,” he called in a long, curious drawl. The _altus_ , having become accustomed to Cole’s reassuring presence, missed the start of the exchange, deep in thought. “Did you also kidnap a strange pale boy along with our new ‘Vint friend?”

“Nope, no extraneous kidnappings,” Varric replied jokingly, then finally glanced over to the mage’s mount between them. “ _Andraste’s ass_ \- who the hell is this kid?”

“Everybody calm down,” Dorian replied easily, using his most charming, lax voice. “This is Cole. Cole is my friend. He’s decided to come along with us because he wants to help the Inquisition.”

“I want to help _you_ , Dorian,” the boy corrected. “But, the Inquisition is trying to make the world better, isn’t it?” He pointed upward, at the translucent green rip in the sky, which they faced almost the whole day, pointing their way even when the light failed. Despite the ominous sickness it left smeared across the horizon, it seemed like every step they took toward it turned the mage back toward True North, somehow. “If the Inquisition wants to help, then I will help the Inquisition,” he decided.

“Well, that’s… that’s very good, Cole,” Dorian told him quietly. “Inspiring, yes.”

“So…” Varric’s question rolled out slowly. “So we’re taking him too?”

“Absolutely,” Dorian replied. “Two hostages for the price of one. Such value!”

“This fucking guy,” Bull remarked with a pleased little rumble in his voice. “He’s on his way to becoming my second favorite ‘Vint.”

“And the most handsome,” Dorian added automatically. “Cole is a spirit of Compassion, by the way,” he announced.

“Oh, that’s fine, then,” Varric replied.

“Sure thing; demons are great,” Bull added nonchalantly. “The more the merrier.”

“We don’t have enough of them, really, what with that giant hole in the sky,” the Dwarf concurred with a decisive nod.

“Lay a finger on Cole and I set literally everything on fire,” Dorian remarked pleasantly.

“I’m not a demon,” Cole supplied helpfully. “I don’t want to be a demon. If I hurt anyone, you will stop me, The Iron Bull?” he asked, his voice open and frank.

Quiet reigned on the trail for a few hoofbeats. “Sure, kid,” the warrior replied, relenting through his frustration.

“If you go mad, and threaten good people, I will stop you,” the spirit offered in return.

If Dorian thought it was quiet and frigid before, he had had no yardstick for comparison.

So Cole rode with Dorian throughout the day and most of the ones which followed, making odd observations about the nature of their mounts and the hypothetical feelings of the animals they passed, blurting secrets from the members of their escort party, and otherwise twisting the mage’s brain into painful knots which still somehow served to keep him sane and drive away the worst edge of his anxiety.

Despite his unwanted party-crasher, the two fighters were remarkably good-natured in their dealings with Dorian. Both remained approachable, if stalwartly watchful over their reluctant guest, and when they stopped for the night, he was offered as much alcohol as he cared to imbibe to sweeten his mood, though the quality improved in the nights when they stopped at the inn.

Varric proved to be a challenging Wicked Grace opponent and fellow-gambler, and was perhaps one of the few people Dorian had ever come across who seemed as eager for gossip as he himself pretended not to be - though of course, they had few gossip subjects in common, so The Iron Bull quickly became tolerant of the two whispering about the sexual and combative escapades of himself and his Chargers, pretending for the most part that he either didn’t hear it at all, or had been invited into the conversation from the beginning.

Despite their initial reactions, both men were softened by Cole’s genuine fascination with mortal life, and the three of them together spent a good portion of the trip answering questions about the humans the Compassion spirit had encountered as they wandered their way along the Imperial Highway toward the northern Frostback mountains. Calling him _kid_ and doing their best to settle his insatiable curiosity whiled away many an hour on the freezing trail, though the spirit showed unfaltering attachment to the mage, first and foremost.

Perhaps part of Dorian had hoped that Cole would either help him escape, or at least distract his gaolers long enough for him to take advantage. That, however, would be far too convenient. So he suffered to be fussed over by Compassion when the archer and warrior weren’t hen-pecking him or teasing hints about the Venatori out of him, all of which were promptly sent away to Skyhold by carrier bird.

Thus passed perhaps the longest and most uncertain two weeks of his recent life, until one day, Varric pulled his mount even with Dorian’s horse and nudged his knee. “Hey, Sparkler, Kid, look,” he pointed, where a series of dull gray towers were resolving themselves out of the mist. “That’s Skyhold, up there.”

“The place where the sky was held back,” Cole mused, reaching around Dorian to braid the horse’s mane into odd shapes. Another of his many odd sayings. “He sounds new; echoes of laughter on an empty riverbed. He still tests the chains, but it is harder alone.”

“Whatever you say, Kid,” Bull replied, and pointed out the cable car they would take up from the Frostback Valley floor to reach Skyhold. Dorian looked around the freezing, snowy landscape and lamented his lack of opportunities for escape. The Spirit Boy was watching him silently, however. Part of him rationalized that, if they didn’t kill him, imprison him, or make him Tranquil for some unknown offense, then Cole would need a friend in Skyhold. The silent smile the Compassion spirit gave him was less stiff than it had been; more practiced.

When they entered the grand but crumbling stone fortress, a single horn blast signified their arrival. They turned right upon entering the courtyard, passed under a stone bridge and continued to the barn at the far end of the keep. Dorian eased himself stiffly out of the saddle, taking a moment to grab his belongings, aside from the staff he was gently prevented from carrying, and straightening his moustache. “Can you get down okay?” He asked Cole congenially, not expecting an answer. The boy landed lightly next to him.

“Unlearning not to hope for more,” the boy told him quietly. “Can’t hate you for hiding when you burn so bright. You are where you need to be,” he said softly.

Smiling, bemused but fondly, he asked, “Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone, hmm?”

With that, Dorian was guided by his two friendly gaolers, through the courtyard and up the stairs into the Great Hall at the top. “That’s the tavern,” Bull pointed at a building as they rounded the staircase.

“Ah, so quick with directions to the liquor. I love that you know that about me,” he ventured lightly, falling easily back into the quick repartee the three had exchanged all the way across bloody freezing Ferelden. It was an excellent tool to cover his anxiety. He was led into the Great Hall and down one of the side doors on the left.

As they passed a welcoming lit fireplace, Varric pointed at the door on the right. “Library is on the second floor through there.”

“I feel so understood. I think, wait… yes, that’s a tear,” Dorian wiped his eyes because he was so exhausted that he did actually experience a moment of weakness.

“Maker, I’ll be glad to get a break from you,” Varric laughed. “But you should give me more of your money tomorrow, maybe.”

“Is that any way to invite someone to a _friendly_ card game, Serrah Tethras?” Dorian let the large _Tal-Vashoth_ open the door halfway along the left side of the hall, bringing them into a surprisingly warm and intimate office area. A dark-skinned woman stood from the desk in the far corner, and Dorian had to give her full marks for her daring execution of finery in aubergine wool and King’s Willow Weave - the puffed sleeves alone made her a bright spot of fashion atop this murky mountainside.

“Varric! The Iron Bull!” The woman greeted them both warmly, smoothing her skirt and patting her elegantly braided coif as her eyes fell on Dorian. Her smile was flawlessly inviting - if he hadn’t known better, he’d say he was being greeted by a distant relative. Well, she was nobility, he surmised quickly - so there was always the distinct possibility. “This must be _Altus_ Dorian of House Pavus?” She held out one delicate hand to him, and he bent properly over her knuckles as a gentleman should.

“Whatever he is, he’s firmly _your_ problem now, Ruffles,” Varric remarked, hitching his thumbs into his knotted green belt. “He should come with hazard pay.”

“Poor fellow couldn’t get enough of me,” Dorian murmured to her quietly, earning a charming laugh from the woman in question. “I did offer them the chance to simply leave me happily in Denerim; if they failed to recognize the opportunity, they’ve only themselves to blame.”

Bull snorted gently. “Best behavior, ‘Vint. This is Inquisition ambassador Josephine Montilyet,” he handed Dorian’s staff to the woman without hesitation. “Time for you to show all that good breeding you’ve been bragging about.”

“I never said such a thing,” Dorian denied immediately, though he supposed he may have referenced it here and there. Certainly not in such a _pointed_ manner as the brute implied. “I suppose if I am not locked away or made Tranquil, I shall find you and Varric at the tavern and the library, respectively?”

“Ooh, yeah, ‘Vint, other way around.”

“Hardly likely,” he sniffed with a smirk, imagining this giant _Tal-Vashoth_ seen in one of the great libraries of Minrathous. Nodding farewells at the warrior as the taller man turned to leave, the mage turned his bright smile upon the ambassador. “Ever so pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady,” he nodded graciously. “Is it too excessive to hope that _you_ will be the person who can tell me why I have been dragged two weeks across Ferelden to your doorstep against my wishes?”

_Chagrined_ was a polite word for the expression that crossed the woman’s face. “Do accept our heartfelt apologies, my lord Pavus,” she began, the trills of her rolling _r_ being more than enough to give away her Antivan heritage.

“I am hardly a Pavus, and not at all a lord,” he demurred. “You are most welcome to address me as _Dorian_ , Lady Montilyet,” he tried to smile, but he was quite suddenly so completely over this situation that he was sure it wore thin.

Looking him over kindly but with a touch of concern, the woman at last allowed a warm smile to come to her face. “I would be quite pleased to help you become acquainted with Skyhold, Dorian,” she replied, “...and to guide you to your meeting with the Inquisitor. However, before that, I do hope you would not consider it remiss of me to suggest a bath, a meal, and a rest from your trip?”

“A Lady _and_ a spirit of Compassion,” he remarked, drawing a broad smile from her. “Oh! That reminds me. I’ve brought one.” At her baffled expression, he explained. “A Spirit of Compassion followed me to Skyhold,” he clarified. “He looks like a strange, pale boy with a giant hat, and he speaks mostly in riddles. He is not a _demon_ ; he wants to help the Inquisition, and I’ll be quite incensed if he is banished or otherwise treated poorly. As a spirit, however, I can hardly keep him on a leash, though I can say he does seem to enjoy the presence of animals. He answers to the name Cole. Would you be so kind as to extend your warm welcome to him as well? Though I doubt he requires food, and he certainly does not need sleep.”

For a quiet moment, Lady Josephine Montilyet looked quite alarmed. Slowly, however, she began to process the information, in the gradual way that _soporati_ tended to do. “A… good spirit from the Fade - a spirit of Compassion - wishes to aid us in the Inquisition?” She asked tentatively. Dorian nodded gently. “This… Cole… he is your friend?”

“Indeed he is,” Dorian replied with all the self-assurance he could muster. “He’s the only one I currently have, so I am rather protective.”

“Well,” the lady breathed quietly. “We do tend to break new ground here.” She gestured toward the door, his staff in her hand, and they somehow acquired a pair of guards during the process. She walked him to a quiet, private room, and showed him inside. 

Turning, she set his staff into the weapons bracket on the wall. “This room will be your private room while you are here; only the cleaning staff are authorized to enter at this time. We do ask that you leave your weapon here while you are in the fortress, please - and for now, the guards will remain with you as an escort, both to ensure we begin our acquaintance smoothly, and also to ensure that you do not become lost,” she added this last in a sheepish voice. “My first week, I was getting lost at least once per day, myself!”

Smiling perfunctorily, Dorian nodded. “Very kind, considering the circumstances, milady.”

“Of course,” she bowed just slightly from the neck to him. “I appreciate your patience and forbearance, my lord - _Dorian_. I do hope - well,” she smiled, and there was something rather girlish and informal about it - particularly the way her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed just slightly. “I’ll arrange the rest of your amenities. We’ll speak later!”

Frustrating as it was to feel so caged, the food they brought was good, if Fereldan; the bath was sorely needed, if lacking in his usual standard of cosmetics, and the bed was luxurious after the weeks of travel and inn rooms, and he passed out nearly as soon as he threw himself down into the blankets. The _altus_ felt antsy and impatient, but he was also exhausted. He had even been given his weapon - if that was not a measure of trust, then he could not imagine what would be considered such. Also, his amiable gaolers on the trip over had been perhaps the most enjoyable captors he had ever had, and reasonably kind to his companion.

Waking quite suddenly an hour or two later, he found the wide-brimmed hat of the Compassion spirit tilting over the edge of his bed at him. “Cole, you gave me a fright,” he groused, but then he looked the spirit over with his otherworldly senses, and felt a knot loosen in his chest to see that he seemed well. “Have you been treated tolerably thus far, my friend?” He reached over and pushed the hat back, half-smiling at the boy until he was overtaken by a yawn.

“There are cats here, Dorian!” He exclaimed. “Like Mister Fishes!”

“Oh?” He thought fondly of the Healer’s cat from Jader, wondering at the fact that Cole had been aware of him from across the Veil. “Is Mister Fishes the first cat you’ve seen?” The boy nodded slowly, seeming pleased despite his lack of a smile as an automatic function of his facial expression. “Well, there seem to be horses and harts here too, as well as some other strange things. There’s rather a lot of Fereldans as well - that must mean there are surely dogs about, someplace. You shall be busy getting to know them all! Some of the people as well, if you’ve a mind.”

Cole seemed to approve of this development altogether. “You should get dressed now, Dorian,” he urged, pushing the stack of clean clothes on the end of the bed closer to him. “He is waiting. They’re both waiting. Don’t you feel better here?”

It was true, he realized suddenly. He should be feeling angry and insulted. Instead, some comforting emotion settled in the atmosphere around and overhead. It was like he’d been wound tight for weeks, and was abruptly but slowly being released from a gargantuan grip. He considered it with some trepidation, but pushed it away to sit up and tug at the Compassion spirit’s hat.

“You little slave-driver,” he griped without heat, and reached for the pile to examine his offerings. They were hardly his normal style, but perhaps someone had decided that the poor northerner must be kept warm here in the Frostback mountains. Orlesian, he thought; cerulean silk brocade with side closures and gold trim, a fitted-waist, mid-thigh tunic with just enough flare to fit his naturally generous posterior. A small mirror informed him that he could pull it off. Fitted black trousers and shiny black boots completed the ensemble, and for when he ventured outdoors, a deep burgundy off-shoulder cloak with gold fastenings and trim to match the tunic, making the blue silk richer in the dim light. As Orlesian garments went, he thought, these were rather well-chosen for his coloring and build. The cloak clasp was a golden lion, but something about it made him think of the Fereldan style, rather than the Orlesian, he thought curiously.

No matter; he had his own bag, and was thus able to moisturize his face against the crisp mountain air, oil his hair and shape his moustache, shave, and line his eyes with his dwindling supply of kohl. He felt almost like a person again, even if it were a slightly diminished version of his very best self, and it was enough to make him feel his lungs had room to expand. He lamented the loss of his ruby ring, eyeing the silver band wistfully. It was humble, but he would hardly forsake its symbolism now. _I can be a good man_ , he promised himself.

Cole had been silent, watching him put himself together with a level of fascination Dorian once would have reserved for old magic. The door was knocked upon and was opened at his call, and Lady Montilyet stood outside since he had not invited her inside. “Oh, Dorian,” she seemed quite pleased with his grooming decisions, for whatever that was worth, though the boy with the hat being inside the room gave her a start. “Ah, this must be Cole?”

“Yes, some call me Cole,” the boy blinked at her with his gentle cow eyes. Dorian could already tell he was chock full of vague euphemisms for the woman, but he cleared his throat gently to cut off that track.

“Cole, would you please accompany me?” he asked diplomatically. “You are my friend, and I wish for you to meet the Inquisitor for a proper introduction. Assuming that is where we are going?” He raised an eyebrow at the ambassador, who nodded.

The trip upstairs to the Great Hall was a fairly brief one; of all places, Dorian was surprised to find himself escorted into the room past the fireplace. He could _smell_ the parchment, glue and ink of a library above, though it was nearly overpowered by the odor of pigments, plasters, and turpentine down below. The entire tower was round, and half the wall was filled with a blend of ancient Elven-style frescoes. Two men awaited him at the desk in the center of the room.

“Josie, thank you for your help,” the human man glanced at the Ambassador with a fond smile as she turned to depart, and then turned a frank and appraising glance onto the _altus_ , looking him up from down. “You must be Dorian Pavus of Tevinter,” he went on, offering a hand to shake in the manner of the Fereldans. “I’m Maxwell Trevelyan of Ostwick. Herald, Inquisitor, all that nonsense.”

Despite himself, Dorian felt the corner of his mouth quirk upward. He wondered if the lack of pretension was genuine, or an affectation. “Trevelyan?” He asked, thinking for a long moment, flicking a count on his fingers and murmuring an old mnemonic through his head. “You know, I think I have a Trevelyan in the family line, some ways back, now that I hear it spoken aloud,” he mused. “But yes. I am Dorian Pavus. I _do_ hope there was some effort made to ensure my identity before you dragged me halfway across Thedas?”

Brown hair, curly and windswept, framed a blooming grin on the man’s face, which he made an effort to tamp down. “Well, I sent a rather clever pair after you, wouldn’t you say?” He half-smiled. “Technically, the Inquisition is an arm of the Andrastian Chantry - in name, at least - and so certain business is not tactful to air publicly, you see.” The short, significant look made Dorian swallow. Pausing, the Inquisitor turned to introduce the quiet Elven man who stood on the other side of the desk he was currently lounging back against. “This is Solas - he is one of the Inquisition’s trusted arcane advisors.”

There was something about the Elven man’s slow, unwavering demeanor which put Dorian off, just a touch. The bald Elf nodded, and Dorian swallowed down his unease, and nodded politely at the …apostate? “Honored to make the acquaintance of the Inquisition, in all its personages,” he hedged. “Now. How can I help you?”

“You mean, besides the Venatori thing?” Inquisitor Trevelyan replied placidly. “That was unexpected, frankly. A bit worrying, too, but my understanding is that you were raised an _altus_ of Tevinter, and both of your parents are seated in the Magisterium. For a man of that background, it may not be so unexpected to think that you know at least a glancing thing or two about the Venatori,” he offered in a most conciliatory voice.

“Further to that,” Dorian offered with some hesitation, “Many of the hotheaded young idiots trying to make Tevinter the powerhouse of Thedas once more are - or were - contemporaries of my generation. I’m sure I’ve beaten the pants off of one or two of them in childhood duels or some such. The whole concept is preposterous and short-sighted - yes, let us save Tevinter by ripping Thedas into shreds,” he snorted, reeling his voice back in as he winced at the sound of his own passionate disdain taking over. “I’m not sure I can help you there, but if there is something I can tell you, I will. My understanding, however, is that that is not why I am here.”

“Well, hello,” Solas spoke suddenly, and with surprising gentleness, into the gap. His brows lifted, his entire countenance stirring from stoicism to wondrous curiosity. “Who is it we have here?”

Dorian turned, to catch the spirit boy peeking up at the two men from behind the far end of the desk. Heart skipping a beat, he hurried over and took Cole’s hand, urging him to his feet and putting himself between the boy and the two men. Licking his lips, he fought his speeding pulse and tried to think of a gentle way to ease the introduction.

“Solas?” Trevelyan asked, brows lifting.

“Inquisitor, it seems we have been blessed by the visit of a Spirit of Compassion,” the Elven man murmured quietly, as though afraid he might scare the boy away.

“I want to help,” Cole replied forthrightly.

“An _uncorrupted_ Spirit of Compassion,” the Elven man clarified, his pleasure at the discovery only increasing. “Hello, there. I am Solas, and this is our Inquisitor, Maxwell Trevelyan.” Openly agog, the boy looked from the Elf to the human, though when he did, his eyes trailed down to the hand resting atop the desk. “You must not have come here through the Breach, my friend - it has been a terrifying experience for others of your kind, and they have been corrupted in the process.”

Dorian swallowed and raised his chin. “He is not corrupted,” he confirmed. “This Compassion Spirit gave me the name Cole to identify him,” he explained, looking from the apostate to the Inquisitor. “He’s come along to Skyhold with me - he is my friend, and he has helped me more than once. I won’t tolerate any unkindness toward him, I want to make that clear,” he warned firmly. “Your friends seemed to think he was a demon.”

“We know better,” Solas replied. “The nature of spirits is often misunderstood,” he soothed, and now he was looking at the _altus_ , evaluating him in light of this new knowledge - from the way Dorian placed Compassion behind himself, to the way Cole tolerated Dorian’s grasp of his hand. “Compassion spirits are exceedingly rare, and too easily misled when exposed to the vagaries of the physical world,” he said, more for the Inquisitor’s benefit than his fellow mage’s. “If this Compassion Spirit… _Cole_ … chooses to aid Dorian, and has associated with him without becoming corrupted, then I am rather inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt,” he prompted the Inquisitor, though his gaze to Dorian was still as harsh as a tough instructor. “Until such time as he proves otherwise.”

“Hmm,” Trevelyan looked him over in thoughtful silence.

Dorian released Cole’s hand, but patted his shoulder gently. “Thank you for coming along with me, Cole. It was very polite of you to introduce yourself.”

Very seriously, he looked up at the _altus_. “He hurts, an old pain from before, when everything sang the same. He hurts for her, another of many he couldn’t save.”

Not having the context to decode more riddles, he merely squeezed Cole’s shoulder. “You will be able to help many people here, Cole,” he said gently, “As you wish to do. For now, would you not like to go see the cats again?” The tiny smile on the boy’s face was perhaps one of the most genuine expressions he had made as of yet. Between one blink and the next, the spirit had disappeared. Hiding his anxiety in a deep breath, he looked back to Maxwell.

“Yes, we have quite a few questions for you,” he said, as though parts of their prior conversation had not taken place at all and he was getting back on track. It seemed to be an effect Cole had on people he didn’t know well. “But perhaps some of those can wait. I think I’ll take him over to the tower first,” he said to the Elven man, who nodded silently, examining Dorian again with a narrow-eyed thoughtfulness, dipping his head once in a faint farewell. “Please come with me, Dorian,” he gestured toward a door in the far wall.

“I’ve come this far; why not?” he mused, and settled the cloak more firmly around him as he realized the Inquisitor was leading him through a door out onto the battlements - more specifically, onto the stone bridge he had ridden beneath upon entry into the fortress. “It’s quite an operation you have here,” he allowed.

“It is,” the man agreed. “From the early days, you’d never have guessed we would get here,” he admitted openly, but not with the air of a man attempting to take credit for the progression.

“A question, if I may,” Dorian asked as they crossed the bridge, heading for a tower in the outer battlements. “I simply find it odd that both you yourself and Lady Montilyet seem unusually familiar with Tevinter social class conventions.”

Though it wasn’t phrased as a question, the Inquisitor understood and smiled. “Oh, we researched you with our spy network, of course.”

“...How refreshing,” Dorian managed, though his eyes were wide, and his stomach clenched, his lips moving momentarily before he could speak. “I appreciate such a forthright response,” he said, though in fact he found the entire concept unpleasant. “Did you learn anything informative?”

“Naturally,” he responded. “But not everything. If we did, then we wouldn’t have any questions, now would we?” His brows flexed upward as though he were having a quiet laugh at the mage’s expense. “But we’ve time enough for that later. Come.”

The Inquisitor gestured ahead, and the battlement tower loomed ahead. Something in Dorian’s stomach tightened, tension thrumming through him in a way he’d rarely experienced outside of a bedroom. Baffling as it was, he had to stop himself from pushing ahead of the man to lead the way, for some reason. Before he knew it, the Marcher gentleman was pushing open a wooden door to the tower. “Now, we’ve recently suffered some structural changes here in the Inquisition,” he was explaining. “For instance, would you believe that we now have _two_ Commanders? Ah, and here’s just the one I want to see.” He brought Dorian to a stop in front of a pale, somewhat unwell-looking man who scratched notes into a stack of paperwork at a grand desk.

Once he became aware of their presence, the blonde-haired man set the pen into his inkwell, and stood. Dorian became aware of the wheat-colored hair, the overwhelming pink flush blooming against Fereldan-pale skin, and the black fur mantle which framed his face and covered his armored shoulders. The man looking back at him was wide-eyed in an equally inarticulate silence, and Dorian remembered the soft, textured touch of the scar on his mouth, honey-sweet against his own.

_Oh_. His gut twisted tighter as their eyes clashed, an electric prickle running through his body inexplicably. The eyes that met his dilated as he watched, a shaky breath drawing inward as he flushed bright pink. Something about this made the tension in his abdomen release, a warmth pooling in his chest that he could not adequately explain. _Cullen Rutherford_.

Neither of them spoke at first, and Inquisitor Trevelyan coughed slightly into the brittle silence. “What a touching reunion,” he remarked dryly.

He should speak first, Dorian thought. He should make pleasantries; keep his shield up. Instead the silence stretched until the Marcher man backed away toward the door he had brought the mage in by, excusing himself with a murmur. In all of this, the man he had brought back from the dead merely stood as if at parade rest, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword desperately, still pink and staring at him.

At last, they were alone, and Dorian found himself at least able to swallow. “Well. This is… rather a long way to drag a man for something that could have been accomplished by courier,” he said, though he found his words came out more softly than intended. “Though it is nice to see that you look… surprisingly well, all considered,” he offered tentatively.

“I… yes,” he said, and his voice at least seemed much stronger than it had when he was on his literal deathbed. It was a pleasant voice; a drill instructor’s voice, rather than an orator’s, with just enough grit to it to leave a pleasant frisson of texture. “I… you… are Dorian? You must be,” he answered the question himself, with conviction. “I remember your voice, and…”

His brows knit together, just slightly, though he had no words to respond, as he wasn’t sure of the context in which the hesitant question had been voiced.

“I-I’m sorry,” he rushed to fill the uncomfortable gap, getting, if anything, more pink. “Only, you left before my… my eyes weren’t really…” he cleared his throat, glanced around desperately. “Um, would you like…” if he was looking for some sort of hospitality to offer, there was none around, and he trailed off, stymied.

Unable to fully keep the amusement from his lips, Dorian blinked slowly, one corner of his mouth rising as he crossed his arms. “I’ll understand if you’d like to start over.”

“Aha,” he barked, sort of an emphatically uncomfortable laugh, and rubbed his neck. Then he stood straight again, and took the Tevinter man in with a cautious gaze. “... _Maker_ ,” he whispered to himself. “They didn’t tell me you were -” he swallowed.

The skin between his shoulders knit tight and tense, his lips pressing flat. “Tevinter?” he guessed. “A man? … A mage?” Each guess put a little more chill into the air.

“No, I… I knew that,” he said, his voice softening in response. “I knew all of that. I wanted to meet you - _properly_ ,” he said. He couldn’t have been more tense if he were being drawn and quartered, Dorian thought. “I asked the Inquisitor if you could be found,” he admitted.

“Abduction isn’t the answer,” he advised the Fereldan man airily, earning a wince.

“I- I’m sorry, I didn’t think… well, Maxwell is the one who gives the orders,” he explained, his voice low and somewhat hollow. “I only wanted…”

Dorian swallowed hard into the painful silence that fell between them. It was rather a long way for such a small thing, but really, he didn’t want to be thanked for feeling pain. He didn’t expect much of anything, really - not being on trial for blood magic was perhaps more than he should have hoped for in the first place. Lowering his eyes to the desk, the _altus_ cupped his left hand in his right, and worked the ring free of his hand. Somehow, it felt as though he were wrenching away a part of his flesh to do so. Ever so carefully, he set the unassuming silver band upon the top of the desk.

Surprised, the man reached down gloved fingers - shaking slightly, and he wondered if it were illness or a long-term infirmity caused by his trauma - and grasped the ring in his fingers. “This is…”

“...Probably of some familial sentimental value, correct? I can only imagine that would be why you wanted to ask for it back in person.” He rubbed his right thumb over his empty left finger. “You should… save it for your true bride. The one you choose for yourself, one day.”

He’d barely had the chance to see the man’s eyes before he left, and that gemstone honey color struck him sharply, a grace note of sharpness atop the base note of empty longing in his belly. His gaze flickered down - he didn’t miss that small tell, the motion of Dorian rubbing at the wrongness of his own skin. Now that it was done, he just wanted to _go_ , to hide somewhere until it hurt less.

“I didn’t know what to think of any of it,” Cullen Rutherford told him, slowly, his shoulders sinking slightly. “Nor was I in any position to act upon it, truly. I could not walk, or feed myself, or - I was very unwell for a time. I still am.” He had slipped the tip of one finger through the silver band, leather-clad thumb of his right hand rubbing the band.

“It seems impossible that I should have been… _dead_ ,” he went on, eyebrows rising as he spoke it. “My sisters and brother were terribly confused - they were convinced at first that I had been well and truly dead, and afraid the explanation for why I was not was something sinister. And then they… wanted to believe,” he explained, dark-lashed gaze flickering up toward him as though to check that he was still listening. “That ridiculous excuse they were given, that it was just a strange illness and I never _really_ died… I wanted to believe it too.”

“But you know better,” Dorian hazarded, softly but direct.

“Yes. The… healer, Anders - he was actually someone I knew.”

“Oh,” Dorian’s brows rose. “I’m sorry, he… he didn’t let on.”

“No, he wouldn’t. You must have been terribly convincing,” he spoke in a voice that was so small he’d not have heard it across the room. “Anders _hates_ Templars.” He cleared his throat. “I am not one, any longer, but…”

_Oh_. “That… that would have been a strange tale,” Dorian rejoined, determined to find the tiny note of humor in the scenario. “A southern Templar married to the son of a Magister?” he let a faint bark of laughter emerge. “I can almost hear Varric’s pen scratching from here.” Cullen groaned gently, and Dorian’s smile widened just a touch in response. “Of course, a living man does not need a - a _coniunx spiritus_ ,” he went on. “You’re perfectly capable of catching your _own_ spouse. Just as well that you woke in time to request an annulment.”

A look of somber confusion crossed his face. There was little to give him away, but somehow, behind all of the sharp-edged fear and embarrassment, there was a flicker of distress. It didn’t truly show on the Fereldan man’s face, but somehow, Dorian felt a flutter in his stomach. Or maybe that was his own fear? “I ...feel as though we are having two different conversations here,” he protested, but yieldingly.

“My apologies,” Dorian nodded smoothly, gesturing with one hand as he tamped down his nervous chatter, looking down at the paper-strewn desk. “Please; wisdom before beauty _,_ my good man,” he teased gently.

“Ah, so you _know_ you are beautiful,” Cullen rejoined, lightly, but with a blush. One corner of his mouth, the side with the enticing scar, curled gently as he looked up, and his eyes fixed on it. The air tasted of a heavy forthrightness accompanying such a statement. “Of course you do; I shouldn’t be surprised. Only, no one _told_ me, you see - I thought you _sounded_ lovely, but I didn’t know til you walked in the door.”

Raising his eyes silently to meet the Fereldan man’s gaze, Dorian held himself perfectly still, eyes slightly widened. Nevertheless, he felt a wave of heat flash through him, from his face down through his shoulders and chest. He thanked his darker complexion, as most people needed some exposure to him to be able to detect the change - but then, Cullen’s eyes changed, didn’t they? Something flashed there as well, as though feeding from one another. The heat had no outlet, and curled uncertainly in his belly as he waited for the other man to break their stare. Unwittingly, he broke it himself after a long moment, his eyes flickering down to the ring in the soldier’s hand and then back to his face.

He caught it, damn the handsome rogue. “My sisters were confused and frustrated that you ran off so quickly, without giving them the chance to thank you properly, or set things right,” he went on as well, that little break in their stare enough to give him room to take a breath. “Their hands were full with me, but when I was well enough to be left to them, Anders spoke to me alone and told me everything he knew.”

“I don’t need to be thanked,” Dorian protested quietly. “Anders should be thanked - he made your body work once more, against all logic. I can’t say I know how he did it - or even what he _is_ , exactly - but he did something a Necromancer and a Spirit of Compassion together could not do.” He answered Cullen’s quizzical head tilt, “Compassion tried to help us, in the Fade, but he was bound.” The desk between them could have been a mile in length. He’d crawl across it, however, if he thought he could be certain of his welcome, he realized.

“Anders wanted to give _you_ the credit.” One corner of his mouth, that scarred side, tilted up higher this time, and oh, it was every bit as perfect as he’d imagined. The mage drank in that little smirk helplessly, but he resolved not to look again because it only made things worse. “He said it would not have worked had I not felt I could trust you, in the Fade, and allowed you to guide me back to my body.” He tilted his head, contemplating Dorian’s mouth briefly in return, it seemed. Unwittingly, the mage’s teeth sank into the inside of his own lip, and Cullen’s parted in helpless surprise.

Clearing his throat, he set aside the distracting notions and sensations, forcing himself to focus. “You wanted to go,” Dorian replied to his last observation with conviction. “You knew - your Soul knew somehow that it wanted to go back. More strongly than anything I’ve ever seen, actually, you wanted to return.” He took in a careful breath and looked him over. “Now it’s done, and yet still you serve,” he lamented softly.

For a moment he thought he imagined it; a sort of chill which went through the man, as though Dorian had put a finger to a bare nerve with his words. “How is it that you see it so plainly?” Slowly he asked, with an air of wonder. Then he shook his head. “Well. I thought maybe Branson was right - you were curious about me, about us, and then you ran off when that curiosity was sated. I found it very disappointing,” he admitted. “I felt it when you walked away.” It wasn’t an accusation, not really, but there was a gut-clenching hollowness below it. “It was very…” he took a shaky breath, running his empty hand through his hair to steel himself. “Then Anders told me his story - how you tried to give away your family heirloom to pay for my life. No one does that on a passing whim,” he declared stoutly, meeting Dorian’s eyes again.

Reluctantly, he looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “It’s _done_ ,” he said again, putting distance between them with formality. “You don’t need me, Cullen Rutherford. I’m no longer convenient to have around. What is left to discuss?” he asked stiffly, fighting each move his face wanted to make toward his true emotions.

Stillness fell on the man across from him, a blink in which he tried to settle himself. “My father,” Cullen eased himself out from around behind the desk, with a slow and stiff gait - the movements of a man whose bodily endurance ran out quickly these days. “My father taught me not to judge a man by where he is from, or how he was born… or how pretty his face,” he added, his voice dropping to that tone halfway between bashfulness and suggestion once more.

At one point in his life, Dorian would have been all smirks and zings, would have had the man before him practically dizzy with flirtation; now, his palms sweat and he gripped them awkwardly, and he couldn’t even have said _why_. Cullen took charge of the conversation with the earnest practicality of a soldiering man. “A Rutherford should judge a man by his _actions_ , he would say. You left, but… I recognize that I know so little about you. There might have been - there _surely_ were reasons why that felt like your only option.”

His steps finally stopped, and they were perhaps a foot apart, but the _altus_ hadn’t the strength left in him to look upward. Nor could he retreat, or evade. He felt trapped, stuck in place between what he wanted and what he was forced to accept as reality. Cullen’s voice was still new in his ears, still _real_ , dark like Antivan chocolate; there was warmth coming from him, as though that pale fallen form he had met had never been. Dorian’s lips moved, trying to construct some shield around himself - _Branson was right_ or _I just wanted to see if it could be done, and good for you that it could_ , but it felt so fucking fake that the syllables dropped away into nothing.

One hand reached out, and Dorian’s heart jumped, looking up at him in surprise. That hand only tugged the fold of his cloak back over his upper arm, as though tucking a child into bed fondly. The face he made was carefully reserved, but his eyes seemed like they belonged in a different face, for how warm and urgent they were. They had never been this close, with the exception of their wedding kiss, and Dorian drank in his expressions in quiet awe - the tension in his mouth, the tightness in his cheek, the flex in the thin skin around his eyes, the slight movements throughout his face. _Real - this is real. It wasn’t a dream_. The Commander licked his lips hesitantly, and pressed on into the silence.

“ _I_ see a man who helped a family who was grieving, when he didn’t have to. I see someone who gave almost everything he had on the off-chance that he could save the life of someone he’d never met - which shouldn’t have even worked, but somehow _did_ , only because he thought to _try_.” His Fereldan spouse reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of clinking metal. “I see someone to whom my sister gave a simple wedding ring, and in return, he left me _six_ ,” he opened his palm with a miniscule smile, and Dorian blinked in incredulity at his rings sitting there, rolling against the palm of his leather glove.

Despite himself, he let out a little laugh, reaching to take the black ring Maevaris had given him. “That’s only five,” he pointed out genially.

Cullen reached out and piled the rest of the rings into his open hand. In so doing, he turned his own left hand knuckles-up, and there on his left ring finger was the heirloom ruby ring. “Sorry, it was the only one that fit,” he explained, with a self-conscious noise.

Dorian thought to joke back, but the words fell apart. That was _his ring_. He couldn’t put a name on this feeling in his chest - elation, maybe? But why was there also fear? He looked up at the warrior, who had gone pale and quiet as he stared at the mage.

That’s because _it wasn’t his fear_ , he realized, licking his lips and blinking. The flash of insight was as reassuring as it was terrifying - he had some reason for why his feelings were swinging out of alignment, at last! But no explanation as to _why_. Some flicker of lore he had once read blinked into his head. Suddenly he realized he had _touched_ this man - his very Soul - in the Fade. Not with his body, but with the stuff of his own spirit; that ephemeral part of himself that bound him to the realm of magic had been in direct contact with the stuff of this man’s essence. He didn’t know exactly what it signified - as a Necromancer, he would never need to protect and cradle a specific Soul, nor would he become so intimate with what that individual thought, felt, or wanted.

Dragging in a breath that seemed too damp in the frigid air, he realized those rules no longer applied between himself and this man - some new rule existed, and he didn’t know what it was. Dorian had caught the hand that hovered over his own, chuckling at how he’d seemingly hastily donned the ring over his glove. “Should have been the first one you sold for medical treatment,” he pointed out, at last daring to raise his overwarm face, one brow lifting with his smirk. “That ring is four hundred years old.”

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” he swore, and went immediately, and gingerly, to remove it.

Dorian laughed when the ring wouldn’t come off at his urging, doubtless caught on the textured leather fabric. “I suppose it’s found where it wants to stay,” he remarked nonchalantly, but through a pang of loss. He’d help remove it later, perhaps, but...

“There was no annulment,” Cullen blurted, and Dorian’s gaze snapped up from his hands to the other man’s face. “You’re still… _we’re_ still -” He didn’t seem to know where he was going with things, but his right hand held out the silver ring. “You… will think this is madness, and you could do… _so_ much better, but...” He stopped, and thought, and then he laboriously dropped to one knee, which was apparently how southerners, or at least Fereldans, did such things. “I’m only offering that… perhaps we should get to know one another, before we decide how we wish to proceed?” Cullen asked, and there was a small touch of hope in his voice that threatened to grab Dorian by the heart. “If you wish it, we could… become friends, and then…” he shrugged. “Well, would you agree to start with that?”

Hesitantly, the _altus_ parted his lips. Every part of him wanted to agree, but… Pulling his lower lip between his teeth, Dorian kept his right hand under Cullen’s left. Light from the narrow windows flashed among the vertices of the ruby, and the silver band was held up in the air in a slightly trembling grasp. Fear again - anxiety, swelling into the space between them, and something sweeter, like longing.

“I can’t…” Dorian began, and Cullen’s face fell. “This is… this is unlike anything I’ve ever -” Swallowing hard, he tugged at the grim-looking warrior’s fingers, eliciting his gaze urgently. “Cullen,” he tried, the man’s name feeling overly bold in his mouth. “Commander…” he tried, though that seemed too flat. “I can’t be just friends with you,” he admitted at last. Dragging the truth out into the light went against a lifetime of training. “I can’t go halfway in this. I’m either all in, or we must both be out,” he explained. He clung tighter, not wanting to let go. The man looked up from their fingers, seeming muddled and desperately confused inside.

“My family,” he went on when the silence spread through the room. “I… I am estranged from them,” he hastened to add. “Only,” his brows knit in concern, “...they hold influence, and money. I cannot promise we will remain safe from them. You deserve better than to have to live in worry,” he pointed out. “My blood relations are far less scrupulous than yours.”

He could have pointed out that Dorian really had no idea what he deserved, but he kindly refrained. “That is… your only objection?” he asked, as though he hardly dared credit it. “Truly?” His hand seized Dorian’s more tightly, pulling it close enough that he could feel breath on the backs of his knuckles. “You fear for me,” he whispered, “...but if not for that, you would have me?” Dorian felt his own reaction, warm and spreading in his chest. Cullen’s eyes brightened - _oh yes_ , he _knew_. What the mage felt, the _soporatus_ felt as well. This was not a thing that existed in only one direction.

That little ache in his voice - that bruising as if from having been restrained far too long - it was so unfair. His fingers climbed to Dorian’s left wrist, sliding beneath the edge of his sleeve and encircling the narrow bones there. Unmistakable want, and something almost akin to _trust,_ hovering in plain sight in his eyes. Without reservation, the _altus_ ’ fingers curled around his wrist in turn. “Is it so strange to you to think that someone might find you worthy?” Dorian asked, his voice rough even to his own ears.

A breath went into the man’s body, but not out - the moment seemed frozen, like the _altus_ was about to be plunged brutally from the Fade and back into his body. Yet Dorian knew the feeling somehow - like a gasp of air needed to make its way into his already-bursting lungs, and when his body forced it out, it left him just a little too light. “A condition,” the _altus_ cautioned, his lips moving though he barely heard his own words.

Plaintively, the far too earnest gaze of his… _husband_ … fixed upon him. “Name it.”

“I want a better first kiss,” he demanded quietly, with every inch of imperiousness he had absorbed at his mother’s side from infancy, one eyebrow shifting to declare the gravity of his condition. “That last was hardly your best showing.”

Quietly baffled, the man took a moment to think, before realizing at last that the first kiss Dorian had experienced with him had been with his uninhabited corpse. The Fereldan man outright grimaced. “Easily granted,” he agreed. Then the silver ring was pushed back onto his finger, where it damn fucking well belonged, and Dorian hoped like hell that if he was ever called upon to surrender it again that it would be possible to do - because with how he felt right now, he couldn’t count upon that being the case.

Leaning over, he watched the man shift upward toward him, like a sunflower, rising from where he balanced on his back heel, spine lengthening and curving backward as Dorian bent forward. There was a measure of warm self-consciousness in the proximity of their faces, their breath, but the _altus_ was hardly deterred from claiming what the Maker and the Fade had promised to him.

Their lips met chastely, though he parted his own just enough to fit invitingly over the ones beneath his. He felt first the faint pressure, and then a subtle tingle - the vibration of a struck tuning fork, almost, hiding coyly beneath the skin. He’d never had such a sensation from such a demure form of intimacy, and he drew in a breath against the ex-Templar’s mouth, feeling him surge upward, just that small measure more, breathing him in in turn. There was no flavor of honey, this time, except perhaps from the man’s afternoon tea - yet it was even sweeter, somehow, than the last, warming him through like nothing else in Ferelden had yet managed to do.

With a shiver of breath, he pulled away, and Cullen watched him go with the air of a man who wondered if he dared to ask his lover to stay, in the morning. It was a look Dorian had worn many times, but never seen. Despite the distance between them, it felt as though there was still something there, intangible, stretching between them like moist dough for kneading, keeping them connected. It made the heat of the Fereldan man’s lips linger in a phantom touch against his own. “I, ah… I’m afraid I cannot get up without some assistance,” the ex-Templar admitted somewhat meekly, flushing. “I’m still not…” he gestured fruitlessly.

Offering his other hand along with the one already captured, Dorian took his grip and leaned back, hauling him to his feet in a gesture that apparently surprised him with its smoothness. “Well,” he began, clearing his throat, and somehow he was fighting a smile. “ _Dorian_.” With just that little word, the mage was also failing to repress a smile. “So. Uh… I’m not supposed to be taxing myself,” he said, sounding a bit put-upon. “I get praised more than a mabari at bath time when I’m seen relaxing off-duty. Would you be open to, um…”

“Yes,” Dorian interrupted firmly, but softly, his lips curving upward automatically.

“But I didn’t even -”

“Doesn’t matter. Yes,” he declared.

Laughing, a low, helpless sound, Cullen reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose with one fingertip as though overwhelmed. “ _Maker_.”

“He can’t have you. He lost his chance,” Dorian informed him in a sing-song tone.

“Well, for starters, then… help me get this bloody ancient ring off. I can’t be doing sword practice with an irreplaceable antique ring,” he pointed out, with the voice of a boy terrified he’d break something in a china shop. Adorable.

“You will learn that I say this all with great respect, but … you were dead a few weeks ago. What, pray tell, gives you the impression that you should be swinging a sword around at all?” he demanded, chin rising and eyes flashing. His spouse’s face betrayed only open-mouthed surprise. “Besides, how else will anyone recognize to whom you belong, if not through my exquisite taste in regalia?”

Cullen pinked once again and whispered for some form of intervention from Blessed Andraste, which did not seem to be immediately forthcoming.

Dorian turned slightly, and offered his right hand, ready to be taken in arm. “Now, if you are feeling well, perhaps you would do me the honor of escorting me, and my two new soldier friends outside, on a tour about your fancy mountain palace? There’s even an above average chance that I will be on my best behavior.” He paused, and frowned. “If you are not, then you may escort me to your room where you may rest, and my two new soldier friends will surely see me off elsewhere.”

“I…” Cullen processed all this, and his fingers now rubbed at his brow as though overwhelmed in a completely different way. “...Leliana is right,” he said at last, “I shall certainly have my hands full with you.” Dorian couldn’t help but laugh as the Commander looked him over. Did he imagine the sensation of something joyous, and tentatively possessive, in the man as he did? Regardless, he preened subtly. “I’m glad the clothing fits,” he offered.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he glanced at the fur mantle, and then down at himself, “that you have expended more effort coordinating _my_ wardrobe than your own?” he asked, in mock disbelief. “My goodness, serrah… take me, I’m yours.” He blinked several times rapidly in a mockery of fluttering lashes, and drew a laugh as a reward. Each one seemed to come more as a surprise to the Fereldan man than anything; it was charming, and Dorian was delighted.

“Well, I had help,” he admitted gently, which earned him a smirk from the mage, who expected nothing else. Still, Cullen smiled and offered his left elbow as he said this, taking Dorian’s hand in a gentlemanly way as though he truly meant to escort him. Curling his fingers between the plates of armor with care, the Tevinter man allowed his fingers to press into the shape of his spouse’s arm, and he savored the darkening pink tips of his ears.

“Perhaps we could rain check the tour? I… Oh, Commander Hendyr,” Cullen said as the northern door opened, admitting a red-haired woman, who paused and took in the two of them with wide-eyed surprise. Short-haired and sporting a woven red band around her forehead, the woman resumed her paused stride as she shut the door behind her, brows rising with speculative good humor at the sight of them.

“Well, Commander Cullen,” she drawled in a southern Fereldan accent, her voice lilting with great amusement. “Aren’t you the picture of good health today.”

“May I -” he cleared his throat, glancing at Dorian, who merely met his eyes with a speculative smile. “May I introduce my husband?” Fleetingly, he covered Dorian’s right fingers in his elbow, with his own. “Dorian, of House Pavus. Dorian, my friend and the Inquisition’s new general, Commander Aveline Hendyr.”

“An honor to make your acquaintance, my lady,” Dorian offered. Were they not entangled, he’d perhaps have offered a hand, but as it was, he merely bowed as lowly as he might while on Cullen’s arm.

“Well,” she replied in slow, but seemingly good-natured, astonishment. “How nice to meet you. Cullen,” she turned to him immediately, all gentle reproval. “You didn’t even tell me you were married!”

Coughing suddenly in the middle of a choked explanation, the Fereldan man abandoned the conversation unwittingly. Patting the back of his cuirass, Dorian stepped in, mostly to soothe the man’s growing embarrassment between coughs. “We’re newlyweds,” he supplied with all his panache. “You know these Templar types,” he shrugged expressively, shaking his head with a _what can you do?_ expression. “His sister introduced us.”

Apparently there was just enough truth in it that it prompted a mere fond smile from her. “Well, don’t let me stop you - I fear the healer’s wrath more than the Maker’s.” She fixed Dorian with a mock stern expression. “Making sure he rests properly falls on _you_ now, I suppose,” she teased them both. “Andraste help you.”

“Let’s introduce him to your Donnic,” Cullen suggested, recovering, “... so that they can commiserate.” They exchanged a grin. “Dinner, sometime?”

“You mean, so our spouses can plot against us?” Commander Hendyr volleyed. “Poor strategy from the Inquisition’s new _Tactical Advisor_. Now, you’re off duty, so get out of my office,” she smiled.

Not minding one bit the way Cullen firmly led him out to the battlements, Dorian nodded back at the bemused-looking woman as he closed the door behind them. Something about the whole exchange caught up to him just then, and he found himself grinding to a halt outside the door. Cullen stopped and looked over to him in some concern. The frown and the paleness of him made him seem tired.

“You just…” he lowered his voice, his smile falling as he sought to avoid being overheard by their guards. “You just told her... I am your husband?” he asked, as softly as he could manage. He _hated_ the flinch in his own voice, but was powerless to hide it.

“Well, I realize my part in our vows was rather… _implied_ ,” Cullen responded, his own voice lowering, and he took the mage aside on instinct, the two of them huddled near the crenelations there on the battlements. “Should… I not have?” he asked, his eyes looking down into Dorian’s face, searching for something quite urgently. “You said, _all in_ , Dorian,” he reminded the _altus_ in the gentlest voice he’d heard from the man yet.

“Only, your reputation…” Dorian began, drawing his suddenly dry lower lip into his mouth to moisten it, but keeping it there to bite reflexively as he looked away. He looked over the population moving about the courtyards of Skyhold, surely all of them looking up to Cullen, who had clearly been one of their respected leaders.

For a long moment, his spouse was very quiet, but focused on him with a tender hesitance hovering somewhere between caution and empathy. The sensations the other man evoked in his chest were subtle, but soothing enough that he almost wished they were something physical he could lean into. He was self-conscious of what he was sending back in turn.

“ _Dorian_ ,” he said, after a moment, with a sound like his heart was breaking in his voice. He reached up, and turned the _altus_ ’ chin back toward him with one hand, meeting his eyes earnestly. “If things do not work out between us, then they do not,” he said, with a pained smile. “And that is a _private_ thing between us. But to deny the truth of our relationship?” He shook his head. “I refuse to be ashamed of you… of _this_ ,” he raised his left hand, thumb rubbing at the heirloom ring. “If I were, how could I possibly be worthy of your trust or respect?”

Swallowing hard, Dorian realized that this was the other thing he had been afraid of - one of many, perhaps, but a big one. A fear that he had invested himself, and that, just like in Tevinter, he would be unwanted the moment eyes were upon them. He’d spent so long living that fear that some small, aching part of him was only now admitting how very _tired_ of it all he had always been. He nodded, faintly, but he looked away again.

No man stayed. This - whatever it was, between them - notwithstanding. 

“There’s my condition,” Cullen decided, declaring impulsively in that moment. Dorian took a winter-sharp breath and looked up at him. “You have to give me a fair chance to prove myself. I think that’s only right.”

Despite the weight in his chest, one corner of his mouth flickered up, just a little. Cullen’s smile was tired, but not tense, in response, and it bled some of the pain away. “I accept,” he whispered. Somehow, he thought his spouse appeared pleased, though he supposed he hardly knew him well enough to tell - the feeling in his chest lightened, ever-so-slightly, however, and he hoped it meant good things. Clearing his throat, wanting to change the subject to gain some distance, Dorian prompted, “You were saying, I believe, that I shall have to wait to receive my tour?” he feigned shallow disappointment.

“I- I’m afraid so,” he admitted. “My apologies.”

“Very well, _mea coniunx_ ,” he allowed with a regretful smile. “You do seem quite peaked.”

Something about the endearment brought a flicker to the man’s eye; it was the look of a man who was afraid he might have forgotten something important. “Perhaps -” he began, and glanced away, almost bashfully. Dorian forced himself still, to wait for him to come out of hiding. “If you would care to walk me to my new quarters,” he began, “I have a chess board, if you, um… if you play?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Dorian told him, wide-eyed and heartfelt. “There are only so many times a man should be brutally destroyed in one lifetime,” he demurred. The way those honey-brown eyes sharpened on him only whetted his appetite for more verbal sparring, and it was all he could do not to grin at the man. “There are _conventions_ , you see - rules of conduct.”

“I see,” Cullen informed him coolly, though something about the eagerness rising up beneath it put him in mind of a playful wolf pup. “So that is to be the sort of marriage you envision, Messere Pavus? Here in the south, when one offers to _brutally destroy_ a man, one must be prepared to honor that declaration, forthwith, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, _must_ I,” Dorian chuckled, and when Cullen offered his elbow with a wicked glitter in his eye, he took the arm again. If Cullen leaned a little on him, shuffled a little in his exhaustion, then who was to know? A spouse could support his husband sometimes, perhaps. “Play your pieces right, Serrah Rutherford, and I may _allow_ you to brutally destroy _me_ on occasion, as well.” Cullen blushed like the picture of health, and cleared his throat at the double entendre.

The heated drift of his thoughts was not lost on the man, clearly. It was something they would have to talk about, when the air settled between them. “I shall certainly, ah… look forward to it,” he said softly as they strolled along the battlements, the words a warming breath for his ears only.

“As you should,” he agreed, offering a small silent promise as their eyes met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it guys! ~~...or is it? >:3~~ No, that's really it. Though I do wonder how these two will get along down the line... 😏
> 
> This story was adapted from the original ending on the Cullrian server. Hope you guys were able to enjoy this version as well! Thanks to everyone who read along, and to Calci for helping me duct tape all the weird spots. You guys are awesome!
> 
> Happy Holidays 2020! (We're almost there guys, we can do it.)


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